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Chapter Text

  A Song of Ash and Arrows

I sit at the kitchen table, alone in the darkness, the book I made splayed open in front of me. The only sound in this house is the crisp and steady turn of each page. I am on autopilot, looking but not seeing.

Greasy Sae and her granddaughter have come and gone. I’ve proven I’m capable of cooking for myself again but she’s still making sure I eat, and I accept the company. Or I don’t have the heart or the fight to turn it down. Even Buttercup curls up on the table and I don’t yell at him to get off. He sits in a loaf, purring, watching me. As attentive as Greasy Sae. I guess I must be getting bad again.

Suddenly his paw shoots out and pats at something, startling me out of my stupor. I almost swat his paw out of the way when I do a doubletake at the page.

It’s Prim. The photo he tapped. And next to her, my drawing of Peeta.

A dull ache hiccups in my chest, shooting up to my throat. I try to swallow it back down, but even so, my fingers trace the images on the page. There’s an actual photograph of Peeta too somewhere, on another page I think, but I thought it would be a nice tribute to his memory to try to draw him. It’s nothing compared to Peeta’s paintings, or the illustrations I know he would’ve gladly added to these pages, but it’s enough to elicit a reaction from me.

I wonder sometimes if he would’ve drawn Prim, if he had been there, if he had known…

There’s no question, I realize as I remember his painting of Rue. I don’t wonder. I know. He would’ve picked a primrose from the forest, pressed it in the pages, surrounded her with a crown of them in his art…

Buttercup takes another swing at the photo, at my hand, and I notice I’m pressing my fingers so hard against the page that they’re shaking. I swat back at him this time and abruptly slam the book shut. The sudden motion and noise on impact startle Buttercup so much that he scampers and jumps off the table.

I storm upstairs to bed. The cat follows shortly after. He curls up next to me, waiting for me to sleep, the way he used to with Prim.

I wish Prim were here. I wish Peeta were here. I want either, both, in Buttercup’s place.

I sleep for hours. Possibly more than the cat.

Sometime in the afternoon, between Greasy Sae meals, I decide to go see Haymitch. He has nothing going on, I have nothing better to do besides hunt. As always, we are a match made in hell – or at least the Victor’s Village.

I greet his geese when I arrive. I like them well enough, find myself amused by them. It’s nice to be hissed at by an animal that isn’t Buttercup. He hasn’t been doing as much hissing at me these days anyway, which is unnerving – and then depressing when I remember the reason. Some of the geese flutter their wings at me, and it makes me think of the ones Cinna made. Reminders are everywhere in District 12.

Missing the luxury of Haymitch having Hazelle for a housekeeper, I push open the front door and brace myself for a sour smell.

It doesn’t come. Or, rather, it’s not as bad. Have I become accustomed to it after all this time, or has my sense of smell gone dull…?

From the look of things inside, this does not appear to be the case. There’s no vomit, no liquor bottles on the floor, at least half as many wrappers discarded in various places. Haymitch has cleaned up. Or someone else has. And the answer is draped on the couch next to him, freshly untangled from his arms and staring wide-eyed back at me.

“Effie?” I say, because there’s nothing else to say. The answer to “what are you doing here” is pretty clear.

“Katniss!” Effie breathes, still straightening her wig. “Oh, good, you’re here.” As if there’s nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to see here.

“Knock next time, sweetheart,” Haymitch drawls. There are no bright lipstick marks peppered on his face where I expect them to be. Except I think I see a shimmer of pink and gloss when I squint. Looking at Effie now, I notice she’s dolled… down. Her wig is more contained, her makeup more subtle.

“Should I come back later…?” I ask dryly, already wondering how best to drive this image out of my head.

“Yes,” Haymitch replies.

“No,” says Effie at the same time, hasty as she stands from the couch. “No, I’m glad you’re here.”

Haymitch makes a noncommittal grunt, but Effie rounds the table and strides over to me, engulfing me in a perfumed hug.

“It’s good to see you, my girl,” she murmurs in my ear. I try not to cringe when I smell Haymitch on her breath.

Nicely, I hug her back, and give her a pat of greeting. “I didn’t even know you were visiting,” I say, making sure to fit a hint of accusation in my tone.

She picks up on it and has the sense to look embarrassed, batting her eyes innocently after we pull away. Her lashes are still shiny and glittery. “I was going to come by your house at three,” she assures me.

“It’s a quarter past,” I inform her.

Effie looks briefly horrified, which allows me a small spark of joy. “Well, no matter,” she amends, but shoots a dour glare at Haymitch, who looks rather pleased with himself. She picks something up off a counter and hands it to me. “Here, a letter for you.”

“Who’s it from?” I ask preemptively, accepting it from her. I can’t register the name or handwriting just yet, but I venture a guess. “Annie?”

“Oh, have you been writing to Annie?” Effie asks with a smile.

“Now and then,” I tell her, and lose my filter. “I guess when you’ve both seen your district partners decapitated, you tend to gain a sense of camaraderie.”

Effie exhales sharply. “Katniss!”

“Sorry,” I say. Using humor to cope doesn’t actually make it any easier. But it does bring a wry, knowing mouth quirk to Haymitch’s face. Not exactly a smile, of course, but acknowledgement. He won’t laugh, but he knows.

“It’s alright,” Effie sighs. “I suppose there’s a ring of truth to it.” I think she’s gotten somewhat used to my shock factor.

Flipping the envelope in my hands, I glance back down and finally make sense of the name. “It’s from Beetee.”

“Yes, I imagine he’ll mention whatever brilliant creation he’s been working so hard on these days,” Effie remarks, making a face as she examines herself in Haymitch’s cracked mirror. “He’s been at it for months and he won’t tell a soul what it is. But I suspect if there’s anyone he’d share his big secret with, it would be you.”

Beetee. I don’t hear from him nearly as much as I do Annie, Finnick, or Johanna. Not at all, really. I initially chalked his silence up to guilt because of the bombs, but it sounds to me like he’s simply been in a world of his own, inventing away in District 3. I tear open the letter, confusion giving way to curiosity.

Dear Katniss,

I hope this letter finds you well. Or, at least, in good health. First, I must apologize that it is so many months overdue. Ever since the war ended, I have devoted my time and efforts to a top-secret project I believe you will find particularly interesting. The few times I have spoken to Effie, Haymitch, Finnick, Annie, and Johanna, they have mentioned you are still going through a great deal of emotional and physical pain. I cannot refute that I am possibly to blame. Words cannot express my sorrow, nor how much the thought haunts me. Too much has been taken from you. Too much loss, in too short a time, for someone still so young. However, I think we can help one another.

I offer you a potential escape.

Perhaps this is too much of me to ask, but I invite you to please come see me at my workshop in District 3. You will be the first to find out what I have been working towards. And perhaps, if you are so inclined, the first to experience it for yourself.

Regards,

Beetee Latier

I squint at the words on the paper, unsure if I’ve read them right. Beetee’s expertise is in weapons and wiring. The war is over; what can he possibly have that I want? The tiny chip that holds hours of songs…? No. He’s too smart to think that’s enough of an escape for me.

“What’s he want?” Haymitch asks, keeping his voice gruff to contain his interest.

Lowering the letter, I look over at him and Effie. “He wants me to come to District Three,” I say, but try to bury my curiosity as well. “Am I not still bound to District Twelve?”

“That was until further notice,” Effie reminds me. “Beetee has cleared it with Paylor and you are free to visit him as you please.” She eyes the letter with heightened interest. “Did he tell you what his newest invention is?”

“No,” I tell her softly. My grip crinkles the edges of the letter. “But I’m going to find out.”

Chapter Text

 On the train, I lean my head against the window and stare outside as the world races by. I see a lot of green, which should encourage me. Instead I am just tired.

Effie is my escort to District 3, probably so I don’t do anything to hurt myself on or off the train. It stings of déjà vu, as if I’m on my way to another Hunger Games with Peeta. I try to ignore it. She tells me Haymitch mentioned my book to her and I tell her a few things he and I have included, like Rue and Boggs and Maysilee, and Effie keeps sighing, “Oh, Katniss,” so I don’t tell her about the drawing of Peeta because this tires me too.

When the train stops, she directs me to the Victor’s Village and leaves me there to go meet up with an old friend, which makes me feel like a child being dropped off at school. I shrug it off and find my way to Beetee’s workshop. Since there's never been more than two or three victors from District 3 alive at a time, he made use of the space in the extra houses when he ran out of room in his own. Wiress’s is available too, now, but I figure he’s chosen to respect and preserve her space.

He’s clearly put his winnings to good use. There’s a winding staircase that leads to a vast, technology-packed basement. Screens, wires, and machines everywhere. I recognize a lot of equipment from District 13 and the Capitol. There’s even a tall glass cylinder and metal plate that looks like it’s ready to launch me into an arena.

I hear movement and tinkering, so I call out, “Beetee?”

A head pops up from over in the corner. “Katniss,” he says, his voice weary but warm and relieved at the sight of me. He maneuvers past some equipment and makes his way towards me with a smile of greeting. There are bags under his eyes and his beard has filled in considerably. It’s clear he’s spent a lot of all-nighters working on this project of his.

“What is all this?” I ask, cutting to the chase. “Why did you ask me to come here?”

He waves me along and leads us over to a computer where he types something in and flicks at the screen a few times. Then he turns back to me.

“First off, I never officially extended my condolences to you, and I wanted to do so in person,” he says softly. “It didn’t fully hit me until Coin gathered us for the vote. Seeing you there, but no Peeta… I couldn’t… and your sister so soon after…” He is like Wiress, his words fading in the air. He takes my hand in his. “I’m truly sorry, Katniss, for what happened that day.”

I don’t know what to say, but I don’t have Peeta to say things for me. “I know,” I push out. “Why else.”

“I told you, I think we can help one another.” He releases my hand, straightens his glasses, and peers at the screen again, dragging images this way and that. “After the war, the innocent lives lost… lives of the victors torn apart by grief… guilt devouring so many of us from the inside… I dreamed of worlds where wrongs were set right. Of second chances – third chances. Of timelines where we won with the least innocent blood spilt.” He glances over at me. “Perhaps you’ve heard of the string theory?”

I nod; I have a vague idea of it. “I didn’t think the multiverse or parallel dimensions were your kind of thing.”

“They are now,” he says, elbowing a stack of physics books out of the way. “And that, Miss Everdeen, is exactly what I’ve been delving into for the past few months.” With that, he taps exuberantly at a few more buttons and gestures behind him to the glass cylinder, which begins to come alive inside with shimmering, sparking, and vibration. It reminds me of the force field in the training area with more flecks of color.

“What is that?” I ask, baffled by its energy.

Beetee smiles. “A portal, if you will,” he tells me. “A means of multidimensional travel. And I believe I’ve finally made it work.”

I stare at the portal in quiet disbelief. “Beetee, that’s not possible…”

“The same could be said about our current technology by people who lived a thousand years ago,” Beetee counters. “Five years ago, many people thought it impossible to overthrow the Capitol and end the Hunger Games. Yet here we are.” He looks over at me, solemn but proud. “Impossible things happen every single day, Katniss. I’ve always endeavored to make the impossible, in fact, possible.”

Pretty words. “Can that thing bring back my sister?” I deadpan, trying not to raise my voice. “Can it bring back Peeta?”

His smile plummets. “No,” he says. “I haven’t – I don’t know yet for sure. It was designed with that and you in mind, but such close, specific alternate timelines… the odds of it taking you there—”

“—aren’t in my favor,” I finish for him, my bitterness choking me on that last word.

“I need to test it,” Beetee clarifies quickly. “Think of it, Katniss. It can take you away from all of this. Take you to a different world, a different time. It’s, as I said, an escape.”

My muscles begin to unclench, but my mind is buzzing just like the portal. If it’s true, then what he has done is amazing. I can’t deny that. My interest is piqued, even though I try not to show it.

After a long pause, I ask quietly, “Why me?”

“Why you?” he repeats, like the question is amusing yet strange to him.

“Plenty of people have suffered, from the Games and the war,” I point out calmly. “Why me, why not Haymitch?”

“Haymitch has Effie,” Beetee replies, and I bristle. Of course I’m picked because even Haymitch has someone to love and I don’t. Poor, lonely Katniss, who lost Peeta and Prim in the same week and drove away Gale after it all. Even Johanna, who claimed there was no one left she loved, has apparently rarely been apart from Finnick and Annie since the war’s end. But I’m the crazy cat lady who eats Greasy Sae’s meals and bursts in on Haymitch and Effie’s kisses.

All of this must show on my face, because Beetee takes one look and continues.

“He’s also old, Katniss. Old like me,” he says. “He’s tired of adventures and wants to rest at home with Effie and his geese. But you are still young. You have your whole life ahead of you. I know you think there is not much left for you here… I figured if anyone needed a fresh start, it would be you.”

“I have nothing left to lose,” I murmur to the floor.

I know deep down Beetee is right. I don’t want to be in District 12 anymore, where I am living just to live and all that I used to survive for has gone. I would miss my mother, who is in District 4, and Haymitch, but it’s not enough. He of all people knows what I’m going through, but he cannot help me. He cannot give me what I need. The only escape he can offer me is in a bottle. Beetee, on the other hand…

“Given some more time, weeks or more likely months of readjustments,” Beetee muses, poring over his books and screens and data, “it’s possible I could perfect it enough so that we could directly locate the parallel universe where Peeta and your sister are alive. But it’s ready now.” He peers at me hopefully over the top of his glasses. “I just need a test subject.”

I consider the portal for a moment, watch as it pulses invitingly. “So it’ll take me someplace different?” I ask. “Someplace new?”

Beetee nods. “I don’t have exact control over where you might end up. The possibilities are endless. But I will ask you to wear a very small camera so I’ll be able to see for myself and establish a connection from both ends. Perhaps then I will be able to locate you, and send things to you if you have need of them.”

Might, possibilities, perhaps… there’s a lot of ambiguity here. I really am a test subject in this situation. A tentative question comes to mind. “Will I be able to come back?”

Beetee tilts his head at me knowingly. “Will you want to come back?”

I falter. His question is better than mine. He was right to select me as his test subject – we can help one another. If this thing works, I will go to a universe that is not ravaged by Panem’s war, or haunted by the Hunger Games. Maybe a vast wilderness filled with wildlife where I can lose myself in the forests and the ghosts can’t find me.

If something goes terribly wrong, well, then maybe I will just be gone. Gone like Cinna and Peeta and Prim and Rue. And Beetee knows that would make me happy too.

“I’ll need some time to think about it, and say my goodbyes,” I tell him, and crack a wry grin. “Get my affairs in order, as it were.”

“Of course,” Beetee says encouragingly. “Make all the preparations you need.”

The portal thrums with potential, with promise. I walk over to it and place my hand gingerly against the protective glass, feeling the energy inside. My heart and stomach do flips, and I almost pull my hand away, as if afraid the portal will somehow suck me in and take me before I’m ready. Then I realize I’ve been ready since I woke up in the hospital after losing Prim.

“I just want to be someplace where the train ride is officially over,” I say quietly. “Someplace I don’t have to be the Mockingjay anymore.”

I see Beetee’s understanding smile through his reflection in the glass. “I think that can be arranged.”

Chapter Text

Somehow, I convince Effie to take me to District 4 so I can see my mom. I stay with her for a while, taking the chance to visit Finnick and Annie and their newborn son – and, of course, his auntie Johanna.

Deep down, I know there’s still a part of Finnick that thinks I blame him for Peeta’s death, so I try to put it to rest before I go. It’s not like Peeta’s mind was in his control – it was barely within Peeta’s. None of us, not even Peeta, could have expected that moment of clarity during the battle with the mutts. But he must have remembered how Finnick saved his life in the Quell, he must’ve remembered he had Annie waiting for him. That’s how I’ve managed to rationalize his sudden sacrifice.

He was gallant to the end, too gallant for his own good. At least he got to die as himself, like he always wanted. And now he and Finnick are even.

It helps to see Finnick play silly games with his son, knowing Peeta gave him that. But my smile still fades when the child’s laughter triggers something in my mind, like a dream, and I imagine the little boy with blond curls playing with Peeta in the Meadow. Maybe I’m there too, watching, even holding a baby sister we named after Prim.

I once wished for a world where Peeta’s child would be safe. It’s here now, a world without the Games, and maybe one day I could’ve given him this. The boy with the blond curls and the Seam eyes. Or another girl could if I wouldn’t, but I hate this thought more than I ever hated Gale’s hypothetical tribute partner or the girls he’s probably kissing in District 2.

I only know that I mourn Peeta’s children, even the fictional one that died in the Quell. I mourn the happy ending he deserved. So before I leave, I kiss the fuzzy red hair of the baby boy whose father he saved.

Maybe I overdo it a little when I hug Johanna goodbye. Although she returns it, she pulls away after a generous five seconds and searches my face with knowing eyes.

“You’re not just leaving Four, are you…” she says, in a tone that adds more.

I shake my head. “I’ll explain more in a letter,” I promise.

“That is proper etiquette, I guess.” She sighs, arms folded across her chest. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say or do to stop you…?”

“No. It’s just something I have to do,” I tell her, and offer a half-hearted shrug. “Who knows, if it’s possible, maybe I’ll come back someday.”

Johanna looks baffled. “I mean, sure. If you believe that…”

A light goes on in my head, and I laugh. “Just wait for the letter.”

When I hug my mother goodbye, though, I make it last. Because Johanna is basically right. Odds are, this portal could be a one-way trip. If I go through, I’m dead to the world. There is no coming back.

The next time Effie arranges to meet Haymitch, she meets up with me and we share a ride back to District 12. I try to subtly spend as much time with them both as I can without walking in on any more kisses. This is hard to do – the subtlety, not just the timing – and Haymitch eventually calls me out on it while we’re alone.

“Alright, what are you up to, sweetheart?” he asks. “Months of hibernation after Peeta’s death, and then you come back from your little Beetee trip and suddenly you’re so…” I watch him dance around the word clingy. “…social. You’re like a cat that’s always underfoot.”

I look up from the floor, swallowing as I search for my resolve. “I might be going away for a while,” I say. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Haymitch studies me closely. “You don’t know if you’ll be back,” he realizes, because even in the most bizarre of situations, the man knows me.

I keep my answers vague and my requests and instructions clear. He’ll be looking after Buttercup and the house while I’m gone (begrudgingly, of course). I’m leaving the book in his care, too, since he helped make it. Lugging it around with me might not be feasible. I already thought of this, so I asked Beetee for a favor. Now copies of the pages will be saved in a small handheld device, if I ever want to look back. Only a few tangible photos are coming with me.

At home, packing is an ordeal. I’d planned to travel light, but Beetee advised me to prepare for anything. A winter coat for a blizzard, a wetsuit for a world of water. He’s even considering getting me those night-vision sunglasses from my first Games, in case the world has gone dark.

“Feels like I’m going back into the arena,” I say idly to Buttercup, who is hovering in the doorway. He’s doing that cat thing where he wants to watch me but not from the same room. Since he’s a stupid cat, and not Beetee, he has no idea what I’m talking about, so I turn and go back to my packing.

The mockingjay pin rests inside the opened silver parachute on my desk, waiting for judgment. I pick it up, hearing the pearl and spile roll and clink at the disturbance, and weigh it on my palm, unsure. I told Beetee I didn’t want to be the Mockingjay anymore. But this is a symbol from my district. A district I am choosing to leave behind…

I sigh and let it drop back into the parachute, which I am taking with me. If anything, I want to keep it with me to remember Madge.

Peeta’s medallion goes in there too. I’ve replaced Gale’s picture with his since I cannot bear to have Gale next to Prim anymore. That’s the last reminder I want to carry with me.

After stuffing in a few more supplies, I zip up my bag and head downstairs. Effie will be heading back home so she’s escorting me to District 3 again on the way. I’m sure she’s confused despite whatever Haymitch may have told her, but I have a letter written for her just as I have for everyone else. Despite her puzzlement, she’ll want to leave on time, so I quicken my pace as I make for the front door, but a rusty meow startles me.

I look down, and there’s Buttercup. Prowling, threading through my legs, leering up at me. It occurs to me suddenly that he’s been making a lot of noise today. Like he knows I’m going somewhere. He keeps meowing, making short little noises that seem inquisitive and even demanding, though I know I’ve already fed him. I’m pretty sure he just wants to get in my way.

“What?” I ask him. “Oh, don’t pretend like you’re going to miss me.”

He gives that helpless kitten mew, then continues circling me relentlessly, even starting up a rattly purr.

Disgusting, I think. Have some dignity. But I don’t know which one of us I’m talking to as I lean down and pick him up.

I almost feel bad for the little beast. We’re more alike than I care to admit, and while we can both survive without each other, we would not be better off. Besides my mother in District Four, we are each other’s last living shred of Prim. I’m not sure I have it in me to take that away from him.

Holding him in my arms for once, rather than by the scruff, I look him in those muddy yellow eyes of his. “You would just end up eating Haymitch’s geese while you were there, wouldn’t you?” I accuse him.

He licks his chops, as if agreeing with me.

I like those geese. And Haymitch doesn’t have to worry about vermin if Effie’s been getting him to actually clean his place up once in a while, so there’s no point in dumping Buttercup on him. I wouldn’t wish this cat on my worst enemy, let alone Haymitch.

With a defeated sigh, I stuff him in my game bag for old time’s sake. For better or for worse, Prim’s ugly old cat is staying with me.

“If it turns out to be a world full of water, you might end up finally drowning after all,” I warn him as I walk out the door.

Buttercup rumbles a low growl inside the bag. He’s too stupid to know I’m bluffing.

The cat stays securely in the bag while we’re inside Beetee’s workshop, since I just know if he gets loose he’ll bite something important and screw things up. Instead, he makes occasional muffled growls and yowls as Beetee and I make our final preparations. As promised, Beetee’s managed to compress a few things (coat, clothes, food, arrows, medical kit) so that they fit in my one pack, because that’s all I’m carrying besides my bow and game bag.

“Makes you feel like you’re going into another arena, doesn’t it?” Beetee says with a wry smile, watching me slip the night vision sunglasses into a pocket.

I shake the pack to make the glasses settle in deeper before pulling the zipper. “It’s all of the Cornucopia with none of the Bloodbath.”

He chuckles and turns back to his screen, tapping and clicking at the program until with a small lift of his glasses he looks satisfied. “Alright. We should be good to go.”

After one more tap, the portal starts up with an ethereal shimmer. A soft whirring sound signals the rising of the protective glass and it finally hits me that I’m meant to step into that energy. I take a deep breath and sling the pack on over my shoulders, silently reminding myself that I’ve faced worse. To go into the unknown is better than to go on decaying in District 12.

Beetee attaches the tiny camera to my shirt and shows me how to turn it on and off. It’s a little thing, but in case my microphone and earpiece don’t work, he just wants to make sure I’ve made it over okay. Besides that, he’s interested to know what it’s like wherever I show up. I can tell he’s excited about this, and I feel sort of guilty for initially hoping the thing might just obliterate me from existence.

Once I’m set and secured, squirming game bag in hand, I approach the portal and take one last look at Beetee. “Any final words of advice for me before I go in?”

“Hm,” says Beetee, fidgeting. He’s even more nervous than I am. “I guess that is the kind of thing a mentor would do.” He tilts his head at me. “What would Haymitch usually say in this situation?”

There’s no doubt what he would say if he were here. I can hear him in my head as if I’m already wearing the earpiece.

“Stay alive,” I murmur.

Beetee laughs. “Yes. Please try to do just that,” he says, tapping at the keyboard. Then he sobers, straightens his glasses, and looks up at me. “Good luck, Katniss.”

I nod at him. “Thank you,” I say, and trust that he understands the double-meaning.

Then I step onto the metal plate, turn, and watch the glass case descend before the energy engulfs me.

The only way I can describe what I feel when I travel through the energy of the portal is that it's like if I were to touch District 12's activated electric fence while under the effects of a heavy dose of morphling. Or perhaps it's more like a strong case of pins and needles, pricking the entire makeup of my body. Or I am awash in seafoam, but the waves come from an ocean of colorful matter.

The sensation doesn't last long enough for me to pinpoint. Suddenly the waves recede, like a forcefield rippling in resistance, and the world opens up. My body jolts as if at the impact of a dream fall. Then all I see is white. So bright, so vast it's almost blinding. I have to blink to adjust my eyes to the light.

A blinding light at the end of a portal, but I am not dead. I am too cold to be dead.

Finally my vision settles enough to take in the wide expanse of snow that lies before me. I inhale sharply, sucking in a lungful of frosty air, and let it out slowly in a puff of mist.

Not a tundra, because I see trees on the horizon. But a land of ice and snow, a world of frozen winter white.

What a place for a girl on fire. 

Chapter Text

My earpiece crackles when I activate it, as if the connection is spotty but recalibrating after the trip through time and space.

“—atniss…? Katniss, are you there?” Beetee’s voice pushes through the static, in pieces at first but then it starts to clear up. “Do you read, do you copy? Katniss?”

“I’m here,” I answer, adjusting my microphone as well. “I’ll turn on the camera in a minute. Let’s just say I need to put on my coat first.”

I set down my pack and game bag, digging the compressed coat out of one bag and watching with faint amusement as Buttercup wriggles in the other. The sensation of the travel must’ve stunned him temporarily but now it’s clear the effects have worn off. Bringing the coat to full size, I engulf myself in its warmth, zipping it up to my neck and reattaching the camera. Then I free Buttercup from his prison before I turn it on. I want Beetee to see this world without a noisy cat whining in the background.

Beetee's breath hitches in my ear, and then he gives a little chuckle. Maybe in awe of the world, or maybe his viewing is enhanced by Buttercup bounding across the snow before blundering to a stop as he distastefully shakes his paw.

“Wow,” he says. “Good thing you packed it, huh?”

“Yeah, good thing,” I say, lifting my quiver. “All Buttercup would be good for is a pair of gloves.”

Beetee laughs as I sling the quiver around my shoulder, thinking I’m joking. I guess I am, but I will probably need to hunt for more food and furs. Exposure will be brutal here.

“Wow,” he says again. “This is – Katniss, this is incredible.”

“Watch me still be in this world, just a colder part of it,” I quip, definitely joking this time. Some of the trees look strange, and… I don’t know. The world just feels different.

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Beetee responds good-naturedly. “I pulled up a worldwide GPS to pinpoint your location before you left. You were here, in Panem, in District Three. And then you were gone. I zoomed out and there’s no trace of you. The map’s recalculating as we speak.”

This information gives me pause. Teleportation in itself would be something huge, but I am truly gone. I’m not in Panem anymore. I’m not even in the same world. Unless that map isn’t accounting for timing. I could be in Panem from thousands of years ago. Even a hundred thousand.

Which means there might still be plenty to eat.

Picking up my bags, I adjust some things and then take a few cautious steps, the snow crunching beneath my boots.

“Now what?” I ask, and I’m not sure if I’m asking myself or Beetee.

“Take a look around,” Beetee suggests. “Explore. See if you can find shelter, or a way to build one. It looks brisk now, but at nightfall…”

He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. In my first Games, I experienced firsthand the Gamemakers’ tendency to crank the arena’s temperature down to freezing at night. The air here is already pure winter underneath a pale blue sky, enough to turn a girl on fire into pure ice. What happens when this world goes dark?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, as Buttercup looks over at me, “…let the 77^th Hunger Games begin.”

As always, my first instinct is to head for the woods. My bow is in hand, and though I am not in full hunting mode, I keep an eye out for wildlife that could make for a more ideal meal than my packed rations (which I prefer to keep as precautions). Buttercup quickly finds himself a rodent to snack on, and I don’t get enough time to see it before he tears into the squeaking creature, but I’m sure it’s a kind of mouse.

Admittedly, I’m as curious as Beetee when it comes to what’s the same here and what’s different. He briefly leaves his post for lunch, but when he returns, he and I discuss at length the flora – and occasionally fauna – of my surroundings. We try to draw upon my memory of the family plant book as a comparison point, deciding together what looks safe, edible, or useful. Some roots and greens we even recognize from the time that the Games had a frozen tundra for an arena. It was the only compelling thing about that year’s Games, seeing as most of the tributes essentially became ice sculptures.

Chestnuts, herbs, the inner bark of pine trees. I gather what I can as I pass through the forest, Buttercup trotting along beside me. I tried to put him back in the game bag once, but apparently he decided this would be a much crueler fate than dealing with a little snow. The trees are starting to thin out, so Beetee and I have digressed to talking about that tundra arena.

“—so cold, so numb that they were practically dead on their feet,” he recalls, his voice carrying on in my ear with that passionately grave way of his.

“I still remember the frostbite,” I tell him, and an involuntary shiver runs up my spine.

“The frostbite was horrific,” he agrees. “Watching their skin deteriorate, watching them lose pieces—”

“If they had just stopped crying… if that one girl hadn’t fallen asleep with her cheek on her shoulder—” I shudder again, remembering the way it peeled. “I had nightmares for weeks. Not to mention how that Career killed her.”

“Yes, that was… an unfortunate use of an icicle,” Beetee murmurs sympathetically.

“Both eyes, though, why both eyes?” I know the answer, I’ve always known – they were Careers and they liked to give the audience a show – but it was one of the year’s few “exciting” kills so the footage got overplayed and I always hated it. It seems I'd blocked it out until now. “And then that snowstorm hit and they couldn’t find the body…”

“I highly doubt that was the case,” Beetee counters, and I slow my pace. Not at his words, but an echo in my footsteps. “They could’ve located her through her tracker, snow-covered or not.”

I hear Buttercup emit a growl that turns into a hiss. He hasn’t hissed at me so furiously in a long time, so I strain to listen around Beetee’s words pouring in my ear.

“The Gamemakers knew what they were doing, waiting until her body had deteriorated enough for the camera," he mutters, his voice in one ear clashing with the outside noise I hear with my other. A shuffle, a crack, like twigs or old joints. "You don’t forget a face that looks like that—”

I arm my bow and pivot fast, but a stuttered scream ricochets from my throat when I see the decayed flesh of a dead person bearing down on me.

Chapter Text

Sunken eyes. Hollow sockets. A hole where there should be cheek. I’m seeing that girl from the tundra arena again, but it’s a man – a corpse – and it’s lumbering towards me. 

I stumble backwards, almost losing my footing, but somehow with my trembling fingers I manage to fire a shot. It pierces his chest and ignites him, an incendiary arrow. He crumbles, withers, but he has a friend with him. Two friends, maybe more. Reaching behind me, I grab another arrow and shoot the next nearest one in the tattered head. It lets out a shriek that freezes my blood but it keeps coming.  

It was a headshot. That kills even the dead in all the old horror stories, so why is it still coming?

“Katniss!” Beetee yells in my ear. “Katniss, incendiary!”

In my shock and confusion, I barely register what he’s saying, but my arm reaches back again by instinct and after I grasp blindly for another arrow, I think to look at the color. As soon as I know it’s yellow, I shoot it straight into this one’s chest.  

It lurches forward, engulfed in flame and howling like the wind. When it falls, I see more of its friends running up behind it.  

I grab another incendiary arrow and prepare to fire, but as I stagger backwards, my feet betray me. Slipping on the snow, I recklessly let it fly before I hit the ground.

My arrow struck its target, I realize with grim victory as I watch the creature burn up, but the others are closing in. Five or more, in various states of rot, filling the wintry air with their unhuman cries and raspy snarls. I can hardly hear Beetee, my earpiece buried in the snow after it got knocked out of my ear in the fall, but I wonder if he can still hear me – if his speakers are echoing with other-worldly wails. Maybe he’ll turn everything off so that he doesn’t have to watch me being torn apart...  

That’s when I hear other sounds above the growls – hoofbeats racing against the snow, the rattling of a chain, and a whipping in the air like someone swinging a mace over their head. I crane my neck to see what’s going on, and there’s a crack of impact before more of the monsters burst into flame.  

A dark figure on horseback parts the crowd of corpses, wrapped in a cloak so that I cannot see his face, though when he bashes another one, I get a better look at his weapon. Not a mace, but something that more closely resembles either a grenade on a chain or an elegant brass burner. Whatever it is, it’s aflame, and each swing proves effective against the monsters. A couple are no more than walking bones, falling to pieces in the snow after a good hard whack.  

Once the last one has been obliterated, the rider turns his horse toward me, and it occurs to me that I’m still gawking helplessly on the ground. A little embarrassed by my vulnerable damsel state, I force myself to stand, and curse under my breath as my legs give an incriminating wobble.  

“Are you a long way from home, girl.” His voice comes at last, muffled by the cloth that covers his nose and mouth.  

“Yes,” I answer quietly. Statement or question, he’s guessed right. I clutch the fabric of my coat, feeling somewhat conspicuous and wanting to take the attention off of me. Quickly I go to retrieve my arrows from the bodies, if only to prove I’m not too shaken. “What were those things?”

“The dead,” he replies, dismounting.  

I roll my eyes. Apparently there are people who point out the obvious in any universe. “Yeah, well, where I come from, dead people usually stay that way,” I mutter, and adjust my quiver on my shoulder before searching around for and discreetly picking up the earpiece.  

“You’re definitely not a wildling, then,” he says with a chuckle. The meaning of the term eludes me, so I glance over at him, only to discover that my game bag spilled in the chaos and he is carefully putting all my gatherings back inside. He looks up, and intense gray-blue eyes find mine. “What’s your name?”  

“Katniss Everdeen.” I feel no hesitation telling him so, only the sweet satisfaction of knowing it will mean nothing to him.

He looks past me and upwards, gives a little nod. “Is that your cat, Katniss Everdeen?”

I follow his stare to a nearby tree, where Buttercup has climbed to a high branch. Coward. “He’s my sister’s cat,” I say, wanting no claim to him.

The man makes a clicking noise. “Here, boy,” he calls, beckoning with his hand. I can’t help but smirk at the sight of a mysterious cloaked rider trying to win a cat’s attention.  

Buttercup is not so amused. He opens his mouth in a warning hiss.  

“Sorry, he hates people.” I turn and fire a glare up at the branch. “I thought you weren’t afraid of anything except thunder!”  

He growls unhappily in response, his ear and a half tucking back against his head.  

“He is wary of the dead,” the man remarks. I hear him lower the hood of his cloak, and he must be unwrapping the cloth from his mouth because his voice sounds less muffled. “He wants to keep his distance from them. He is being wise.”  

“He’s a fraidy-cat,” I counter. There are no excuses for him. He practically begged to come with me, so I’m going to give him a hard time about this.  

But when I turn back to the man, my breath stalls in my throat.  

If it weren’t for his pallor, he would look like a man from the Seam, with his long dark hair and gray-blue eyes. Except he is not olive-toned, just pale, deathly pale. The cold gives no color to his cheeks. His skin, almost a sickly gray, is pocked with something worse than frostbite. A chill runs up my spine as I wonder just how long he’s been out here.  

Soon enough, I realize that I’m staring. In my defense, he is too – though ironically, he’s being more warm and friendly about it. To save face, I accept my game bag from him and try on a smile. “Um, thanks for the help. You know, with the bag, and the, uh… dead things.”  

“You’re skilled with a bow. You almost didn’t need my help back there,” he points out with a light chuckle. It fades, and his expression wars between curious and stern before he turns back to his horse. “It is a good thing your arrows burst into flame. Fire’s the only thing that kills them. That and dragonglass.”

“Dragonglass?” I ask. He pulls something out of a knapsack and holds it out to me. It’s a sharp blade, made of a shiny black material I recognize. “Looks like obsidian.”

“That’s what the maesters call it,” he confirms, putting it away again while giving me a sidelong glance. “I don’t suppose I might ask what a girl with self-burning arrows is doing beyond the Wall?”

I give a feeble shrug. “It’s just where I ended up, I guess…” And then, in an attempt to ward off confusing follow-up questions, I swing it back at him. “What about you, what are you doing here?”

“I’m a man of the Night’s Watch,” he tells me, as if I should know what that means. “It’s dangerous for anyone, being north of the Wall. But it’s always been my job to make sure the wildlings and white walkers stay on this side of it.”

With that, he swings himself back onto the saddle and steadies his horse by the reins.  

“You’re not a wildling,” he continues matter-of-factly. “If you were, you’d be heading south, like you ought to be.”  

“South?" I ask, squinting in that direction before turning back to him.  

“As long as the Wall stands, the dead cannot pass beyond it.” His horse grows restless, so he lets it trot and circle in place. “Go south until you reach the Wall. There are three manned castles that guard it. If you go straight south, the Shadow Tower will be the closest to the west, and Castle Black the same distance to the east.” He considers me for a moment. “The Night’s Watch doesn’t normally host young girls. Go to Castle Black, tell them Benjen Stark sent you. Ask for my nephew, Jon. He’s a good lad, he’ll keep you safe there.”  

“Well, why aren’t you heading south then?” I press, noting the direction he’s steering his horse. If he has a nephew waiting for him…  

Benjen offers a wan smile. “It’s as I said,” he responds. “The dead cannot pass.”

His confirmation of what I already suspected still infuses an icy chill into my veins. He is not like those things, and I am grateful, but I have been saved by a dead man. The fact that he reminds me of my father makes it that much more unsettling.  

“You must feel like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says lightly. “To tell you the truth, when I first saw you, so did I.”  

He turns his horse to leave, then thinks better of it and pauses with a glance over his shoulder.  

“When you speak to Jon... I want him to know that I’m still out here, fighting,” Benjen says, sounding just as grim as he looks while he wraps his face with the cloth once more. “But do not tell him what I’ve become. He mustn’t go looking for me.”

On that note, he urges his horse into a gallop and heads back towards the thicker parts of the forest.

“Wait!” I yell after him. “How will I know when I’ve reached the Wall?”

“You’ll know!” he calls without looking back, and his laughter carries on the wind.

I watch him for a while, sort of expecting him to vanish into thin air. When the distance shrouds him completely, I put my earpiece back in place.  

“Beetee, did you get all that?” I ask, more calmly than one might expect after a run-in with death.

“A ghostly encounter…” Beetee marvels softly. But then his tone grows concerned. “Are you sure you’re alright, Katniss? If it’s too dangerous, I can start looking for an exit point—”

“An exit point?” I tilt my head in confusion, though he can’t see me.

“A way to retrieve you, to bring you home—”  

“Didn’t you hear?” I ask, exhaling my words in a puff of mist. “I have a Wall to get to.”

Turning around, I pick up my pack and head south, clicking aggressively at Buttercup as I pass his tree. I’m not done with this world yet. 

Chapter Text

Buttercup trots ahead of me as we make our journey south, long past tolerating the snow at this point and now stepping lively like a cat on a mission.

He’s the one who finds the river first, eagerly helping himself to an ice-cold drink. Since he still bristles whenever I get too close to him around water, I wait patiently from a distance, taking in the sight of it. Bordered by rock structures, it flows south with a slight bend. I decide to follow it for as long as I can, while keeping close to the shelter of the forest. The woods feel like home but there’s a sense of security in having already found a water source. Haymitch would be proud, I’m sure.

I’ve already turned off my microphone and camera after an hour of this. Beetee has other things to do besides watch me like some Gamemaker, and there is only so much snow and forest he can ooh and ahh over, so we agree to conserve the camera for something important and he grants me my privacy. After that, it’s just Buttercup and me. I appreciate Beetee, but I don’t mind this. I came here for this.

The scents of ice and pine perfuming the wintry air. The sounds of running water and snow crunching beneath my boots. It was still summer when I left Panem, but I embrace the novelty. I embrace the solitude.

(Buttercup doesn’t count.)

There’s still the lingering threat of the dead – white walkers, I believe Benjen called them – but at least now I know how to deal with them. In my mind, they are mutts I just have to stay ahead of until I get out of their realm. Until I reach the edge of the arena, the Wall where the dead cannot pass.

Where Benjen cannot pass.

Even though he rode off in the opposite direction, the man still haunts me. His dark hair and grayish eyes, his gaunt features, his general aura of diligence and his attire black as coal. He could’ve been anyone from the Seam. He could’ve been my father, warm and good-humored despite his dismal surroundings. Or my uncle, I suppose. I never had one, so I feel sorry for his nephew. Benjen may still be riding and fighting, but he has still gone to a place from which he cannot return.

The thought follows me into the night. I make camp in the woods and set myself up as I did in my first Games, in a heated sleeping bag in the trees. When I fall asleep, I dream.

I dream of Prim happily trailing after Buttercup in the snow. I dream of Peeta at my side, making so much noise in the forest that I cannot hope to shoot a thing. I dream of Rue climbing the trees, letting me know with a whistle if there’s danger in sight. I dream of Cinna walking with me, discussing his designs for winter apparel that will keep me warm in this particular environment.

And then, in my dreams, I approach the Wall. It’s somehow a mountain of ice, a dam, and a district gate, an amalgamation of sorts. After I reach it, I turn to them, and they are standing still as statues, looking at me. Prim softly shakes her head. Her fingers link with Peeta’s and Rue’s. Rue takes hold of Cinna’s.

Their sad eyes vanish from their sockets. Their skin rots off their flesh, decomposing right in front of me. That’s when Prim, as in so many of my dreams this year, becomes the human torch she was the last time I saw her.

Courtesy of their linked hands, she ignites Peeta and then Rue, who in turn ignites Cinna. In the blink of an eye, I am caught between walls of ice and fire…

I wake up with a scream that nearly knocks me out of my tree.

Steadying myself, I search around frantically for signs of unwanted visitors who might’ve heard my cry. A steel blue sky indicates that it’s still early twilight, not yet dawn. Nothing stirs except for me, and Buttercup in another branch with his wary glowing eyes. If anyone else is even out there, probably they assume they heard a wolf or some other nocturnal creature belonging to these woods. Or even the dead. No wonder they stay away.

As for me, I am used to death. With a sigh, I settle back into my branch and claim those last few hours of sleep.

We set out again in the morning, and I do a little hunting along the way. A hare and three squirrels fill my game bag by early evening. We celebrate by making camp and cooking them on a low fire. Buttercup eats with me almost companionably, pleased to be getting more than just scraps. He’s the only one I have left to feed anymore besides myself, so I figure why not.

As the fire crackles, and Buttercup noisily chews his meat, I dare to fill our little section of the forest with song. Mountain airs, The Hanging Tree, a song I made up from Rue’s four-note whistle, the Meadow song. Buttercup’s ears prick up at the last one and he stops eating to look at me. This one he knows well, so often wrapped up in Prim’s arms or at the edge of her bed while I sang her to sleep. I reach out to stroke his fur, and he lets me, purring. He is probably thinking of her too.

Another morning comes – luckily, as I reassure Beetee when he checks in on me, without any further visits from the dead. He’s been trying to use some of my footage to create a map of the world I’m in using the technology available to him. Which is interesting, though I’m not sure if I’ve given him much to work with. Just trees and rocks and endless white.

We go a fair distance before a snowfall begins. It’s light at first, but as the day goes on, I tighten my coat around me and raise my hood. The canopy of the forest provides some respite, but not enough. Squinting, I use a hand to guard my face from the flurries while I keep an eye out for shelter.

We're well into the afternoon when I find the cave. Not just any cave. I turn my camera on for this one. Something this beautiful needs to be shared with someone who isn’t a cat.

A dazzling waterfall crashes down on some rocks from an opening in the surface. Light spills in after it, shining on a pool that has steam radiating from its waters, making it look that much more inviting. I set down my bow and slowly let my bags and quiver drop to the cave floor, trying to find my breath. This vision of paradise seems to have stolen all of it away. Even Buttercup padding over to the waterfall and getting his head soaked while lapping at it doesn’t shatter the illusion.

After giving Beetee a good look at the cave’s beauty, I turn off my camera and peel off my dampened, snow-crusted coat and clothes, leaving them to dry. A quick toe-test tells me that the pool water temperature is safe, so I take a deep breath and jump in. The relief that floods through me at its warmth is divine, and so is the look of annoyance I get when I wipe the water out of my eyes and notice I’ve dampened Buttercup with my splash.

Grinning, I shake out my hair and tread water for a second, relishing in this chance for a much-needed bath. Then I push back and relax against the pool’s rock wall.

There’s so much space in this pool. Space enough for two.

My splashing slows as I look around at the interior of the cave. It’s so different from the one Peeta and I shared together in our first Games, and yet being here feels wrong without him. He would’ve liked this cave. I can only imagine the paintings it would inspire.  I can almost envision him in this pool with me, as flushed as my face gets at the thought. But I would overcome my discomfort if it meant having him here with me, a perfectly Peeta-like smile on his face as the hijacking venom mists out of him like the poison from the Quell.

Maybe he’d jump in, immerse himself entirely underwater with much zeal, then resurface and kiss me as himself, as much as we kissed in our own cave. But I think it would be too steamy for the Capitol to air. Murder they can show, but not this.

Here, I think, is the place where I miss him most. I have never missed him more anywhere else.

Removing myself from the pool, I sit and dry myself, watching numbly as the cascade sends a steady trickle down the rocks. I am lonely in this cave. It isn’t ours. I’m not sure it even belongs to me. Something haunts the air in here, the ghosts of past romances and stolen moments beneath the waterfall. This place is meant for passion between young lovers, while I am merely hiding away from the winter’s chill.

Away from the snow, away from the danger of frostbite, I allow myself a few tears. But maybe that’s not the right word; I couldn’t stop them if I tried.

I get a small fire going and change into fresh clothes. Buttercup comes near to dry off as well. We have dinner and wait for the weather to subside. With my flashlight from my pack, I pass the time by indulging Buttercup in a lazy game of Crazy Cat. It tires him out, and we both fall asleep listening to the wind whistle outside as the waterfall continues to lash down from the surface.

He’s no Peeta, but he does have soft fur.

Chapter Text

When I awake, I peek my head out of the cave to find that it’s early morning and the snow has stopped. Despite this, I don’t want to leave behind my warm bath just yet, so I venture into the forest and set some snares. Might as well stock up on fresh game while I’m staying put.

Peeta wouldn’t have wanted to leave either, but I promise myself it’s only one more day. Or even just a few hours.

With that in mind, I make the most of my remaining time in what may very well be one of the few luxurious getaways in this particular region of the world. The waterfall makes for a good shower, reminding me of the one in the Training Center, and there may have been a jacuzzi as well but I never tried it, so I make up for it in the pool. I’m probably scarring Buttercup for life but I don’t care. The water is so relaxing that it makes me forget about traumatized cats and dead people, just for a little bit.

Later, when I’m fully pampered and dried off, I go out and check my snares. I repent for any horrific memories emblazoned into Buttercup’s tiny brain by bringing back a decent haul of three rabbits, a squirrel, and a couple of fish from the river. We have a late lunch (or an early dinner), and then I pack the leftovers into my game bag. It should hold us for a while, or at least until we reach the Wall. Buttercup seems to understand we’re leaving his little lion’s den and gets a final drink from the waterfall while I pull together the rest of my things.

Stepping out of the cave for the last time, I pat the rocks in thankful farewell, then turn for a final look at its splendor.

“Goodbye, Peeta,” I murmur, because even if he isn’t here, I want to believe he was. I want this beautiful cave to be his final resting place, not the sewers underneath the Capitol.

If he cannot follow me beyond the Wall, then this is where I must let him go.

“Don’t ever leave this cave,” I tell him. The words catch painfully in my throat, but instead of letting myself cry, I press the three middle fingers of my left hand to my lips and extend them to the cave’s entrance. Then I steel myself and turn away, heading for the river.

Not long after we start following it again, we reach a point where it forks east and west. Following it west, I presume, will take me to the Shadow Tower. But according to Benjen, Castle Black is where I want to go. I have a message for his nephew, anyway. So we head east, winding along the forest and picking up anything edible along the way.

Despite our late start, we manage to travel a good distance by nightfall. But I get a strong feeling that tells me I’ve gone far enough for now. It’s one of those gut instincts I’ve learned to trust over the years, and since I’m now living in a world with the walking dead, I furtively check my surroundings and start looking for a good camping spot with a tree to sleep in. I find one, and after warming by a small fire, I climb up and settle into my sleeping bag.

I don’t know when I nodded off, maybe it’s been a couple hours, but suddenly I jolt awake with a gasp at a tremor in the earth that shakes my tree. I figure out pretty quickly that it wasn’t a dream-fall, or my imagination, because for one thing Buttercup gives a short angry wail and scampers up to a higher branch. For another, it happens again. And again, and again. Like the heavy footsteps of something, or many somethings. Marching, lumbering intently towards their destination. It seems far away but I can still hear it, still feel it, and I know whatever this thing is, it’s massive. Positively mammoth—

A heart-stopping bellow trumpets through the air, jolting me again and turning my entire body to gooseflesh even inside the heat of the sleeping bag. I try to take deep breaths and immediately recognize the smell of smoke on the air. Glancing around wildly, I think I can make out a flickering glow through the trees to the east.

Fire. A forest fire. Close enough that I should be worried?

Freeing myself from my sleeping bag, I hastily climb up higher, my heart thumping along with the earth as more trumpeting roars tear the night’s once still silence to shreds. I emerge through the canopy, and what I see leaves me breathless and clinging to the trunk for dear life.

It’s a safe enough distance that I don’t need to leave my post, but miles beyond my part of the woods is a center stretch of trees set ablaze. It’s quite possibly the biggest fire I’ve ever seen, bigger than the wall of flame that chased me in my first arena. This time I’m seeing it from the equivalent of a Gamemaker’s front row seat, so the heat and smoke don’t sting my eyes, don’t impair me from witnessing the dreadful inferno that lights up the night with a horrendously magnificent shade of orange. Somehow I don’t think Peeta would find this very beautiful.

Beyond the trees, there are many little lights, moving fast across the snow. It takes a second for me to realize they’re torches, people running in the darkness. The source of the bellowing charges in front of most of them, emitting yet another war cry.

It’s a living, breathing, colossal woolly mammoth. And it’s stampeding toward a thick, solid fortification of ice and snow, a towering wall that makes it look like a puny kitten in comparison while the human mob around it looks like a swarm of ants. At first I wonder if a younger mammoth is ambling along next to it, until I realize it’s walking upright on two feet.

That’s a giant. That is a giant walking side by side with a mammoth. And that might even be a giant riding it.

Sucking in a shuddery breath, I start to retreat below the branches slowly, but then I stop and turn on the camera and my microphone.

“Beetee,” I hiss between breaths. “Are you awake, are you there?”

He’s mentioned that he sometimes stays late or even overnight in his workshop when he’s got a momentum going with his projects. Even if Peeta wouldn’t love this sight, I can bet it’s relevant to Beetee’s interests.

“Beetee…” I adjust my microphone. “Beetee, there’s a mammoth.”

After a few seconds, I hear the wheels of his chair approach his desk as he settles in. “Well,” he says softly, and I can just see him adjusting his glasses with a fascinated smile. “Would you look at that.”

“Oh, I’m looking,” I mutter, still in disbelief. The creature trumpets again and there’s no way Beetee didn’t hear it. “I think they’re using it as a weapon. Trying to attack the Wall.”

“I figured you were thinking of how much meat you could get out of something that size,” he says, in pretty good humor for someone who’s seeing an extinct creature emerge from a forest fire.

The hunter in me shivers longingly at the thought. I can’t imagine killing a whole mammoth by myself, but a single leg from that beast could’ve fed my family for weeks. “Well, if I could bring down an arena…”

Beetee chuckles at my sardonicism, but the roar of the charging masses and their large woolly friend almost drowns him out. The giant on the ground has now broken into a run. I feel the vibrations from all the way over here in my tree, and my breath hitches at the tremor. I quickly turn off my camera and withdraw below the treetops, making my way down until I reach the safety of my fastened sleeping bag.

“Just thought you’d like to see that,” I tell him, while leaning back and resting my head against the trunk.

“Stay safe, Katniss,” he reminds me, and we click off.

Now I’m left with only the roar of fire and war cries to lull me back to sleep. In the distance, someone keeps blowing a horn. Two blasts, a pause, then two again. During lulls, I hear the unmistakable sound of steel clanging and arrows flying through the air.

“DRAW!” a man’s voice carries on the wind. “LOOSE!”

His commanding shout sends a fresh wave of chills up my spine. There’s a battle raging at the Wall. If I had left the cave when I’d planned, if I hadn’t stopped to camp so early, I would’ve been way too close for comfort.

Instead, I try to stay awake until I’m sure neither the fire nor the battle will be spreading my way. Both seem to be confined to the Wall and a particular section of forest that’s separated from the rest. Eventually the thuds and yells become enough of a lullaby that I find myself drifting off.

Chapter Text

A nightmare of Peeta’s death rouses me at first light. He was trying to lead me to the safety we were promised at the Wall when one of the arrows went through the back of his head. Right in the eye, like so many of my prized squirrels. I can still feel him in my arms when I lurch awake with a sob of his name that I hope doesn’t ring out across the woods.

Leaning back against the tree, I close my eyes again and sigh. “I thought I told you to stay in that cave.”

Even in death, he doesn’t listen. If only sleep syrup worked on ghosts.

I pack up my sleeping bag and climb down. There’s time for a short breakfast before we set out. Buttercup’s way ahead of me, scurrying through the snow when I call for him with a rodent in his mouth. Between bites of cooked rabbit, I glance up at the parts of sky that aren’t shrouded by the treetops. Even from here, some of the smoke is visible. But the worst of the fire is probably out. The forest is quiet.

Satisfied with the peace of the morning, I pull my things together and we set out. The thought lingers that we’re heading in the direction of last night’s battlefield, but it doesn’t slow me. I’ve come so far. I can’t turn back now. There’s a certainty in having a specific destination, and that destination is Castle Black.

The forest and river have just opened up into a beautiful green lake when I feel the ground start to tremble again. Driven by the very real memory of mammoths and giants roaming these grounds, I fall back into the woods and consider climbing up another tree.

But this quake is different. It’s not mammoths or giants. It’s the hoofbeats of a thousand or more horses charging at once.

All the more reason to climb, to hide. And yet I’m frozen in place, listening, clutching at a trunk from ground-level and waiting. The lake is large enough that if the riders break through the trees, I will have plenty of time to get up and out of sight. But it occurs to me that they could just be the men from last night’s battle, or even reinforcements, restricting themselves to the same stretch of land.

Sure enough, I hear the familiar clang of steel, horses whinnying, and men shouting, but from the same safe distance. I stay hidden behind the tree just the same, even as the noises die down. It’s too swift an end to a battle. Even if it impedes my travel, better a significant delay than a run-in with a bloodbath. I’m not leaving this spot till long after I hear hoofbeats going the other way.

Time passes. I don’t know how much. Eventually I get curious and scale the tree, but it’s not tall enough for me to see much. I think they’ve built a fire – a regular one, not a forest fire, but it’s still pretty big if I can see the smoke from here.

After the fire, steady hoofbeats signal their departure. They’re not heading my way, but I stay in the tree until a comfortable silence has fallen. When it sounds safe, I make my way back down and carefully slip out into the open. A quick scan of the area shows no other signs of life. I snap my fingers at Buttercup and we start our trek around the lake.

It’s another two hours or so before we reach what I’m sure is the site of the battle from this morning. There’s a camp here, freshly abandoned. Overturned pots and pans, put-out fires still smoldering, a few tents torn or burnt or knocked down but a couple still standing. I find traces of blood and gore on the ground, but no bodies. I should’ve known as soon as I smelled it. They burned them. There’s only ash and bone.

Keeping my guard up, I peek into the biggest remaining tent. The fire in there is low, but burning still, with slightly charred meat still on the spit. No one’s turned it in quite a while. Two cups sit on a wooden table, both full of a white liquid. Milk, maybe? Picking up the one that’s still a quarter full, I take a whiff to see if it’s sour. It smells fermented. I wrinkle my nose and put it back down, wondering if Haymitch would dare to drink it. Personally, I’d rather fill up my water bottle at the lake.

The blankets of fur in the corner are a cozy temptation, but I feel a distinct sense of “girl in a fairytale” about this situation. If I make myself comfortable and take a nap in this tent, maybe it turns out that it’s not as abandoned as I thought. The real owner, or the one who conquered them, could come back and cut my throat in my sleep. That might not be exactly how the old fairytales ended, but you get the idea.

Still, I run my fingers along the table and the furs longingly. It’s a solid place to camp, no doubt. I don’t know how far Castle Black still is from here, I don’t know if it’s going to start snowing again, and I don’t know for sure if these Night’s Watch men will let me in (or how many of them are still alive). What I do know is that there’s decent shelter here, a place to put my feet up. Buttercup’s even jumped on the table, knocked over one of the cups, and started lapping up the fermented milk.

I decide the safest course of action is to give it time. It’s late afternoon now. I can head back to the edge of the lake and refill my water, maybe set some snares and do some hunting. By the time I come back, probably just after nightfall, if no one’s come and claimed this place (or reclaimed it), the coast should be clear. If they have, I’ll just retreat and camp by the lake. It seems as good a spot as any.

Buttercup, having curled up on the furs, doesn’t want to come with me. He just kind of gives me this lazy, unimpressed glare when I snap and gesture at him. I guess it’s fine. He’s had enough walking for today, and I don’t need a hunting partner. He survived the bombing of District 12 so I’m sure he’ll duck out of here if something spooks him.

“Well, you know where the lake is,” I tell him, and shift my game bag on my shoulder before turning and letting the netted curtain fall behind me.

I make it to the lake faster now that I’m not cautiously approaching a battlefield. It reminds me a little of the one back in 12. With not even Buttercup around to judge me, I sing to myself while I’m getting water. A few verses in, a snapping sound in the forest makes me quickly twist the cap on my bottle. Putting it away in my bag, I pull an arrow from my quiver and go investigate.

To my relief, it’s not a dead person or a bloodthirsty soldier. There’s a deer roaming these woods. I’ve been faring pretty well with food so far, but I imagine if nothing else, having fresh game to trade might put me in good graces with the men at Castle Black.

I track it for a while, keeping within reasonable distance of my camping grounds. It’s pretty quick and evasive, but I suppose it has to be while living in a world like this one. Even so, I keep after it, if only to prove something to myself.

With nightfall fast approaching, I’ve finally got a good clean shot at it. I’ve placed my feet carefully, it’s right in my line of sight. All I have to do is release.

And then a loud crack echoes through the forest, startling both of us. Instinctively I swing around with my bow, searching left and right. There’s nothing. No white walker staggering along on its twig-like bony legs. The deer scampers off to safety anyway, probably encouraged by my movements.

I start to lower my bow in disappointment. But the crack comes again. And again and again. The loud, resonant snap and pop of sticks and branches breaking. It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere near the abandoned camp. Have its former occupants returned?

Disarming my bow, I follow the noise as silently as possible. After some time, the cracking fades, but I begin to hear rustling and logs shifting into place.

It might just be one person building a fire. But it’s possible they don’t want company.

As I creep closer, the source of the noise comes into view. So does his lit torch as he stands up. I duck behind a tree, pressing my back against the trunk. Then I take a deep, quiet breath and turn to peer around at the figure.

Just like Benjen, he’s dressed thickly in black. His cloak, his furs, I think even his breastplate – all black as coal. And a head of dark curls to match. Another person who would fit right in at the Seam.

He’s hovering solemnly over a large platform of firewood. As he turns and lights the first corner, I see the dead girl lying on top of it, and a heaviness sinks in my chest while simultaneously tightening my throat.

This is a funeral pyre. I am spying on a girl’s cremation. I am intruding on something incredibly personal.

But as the flames spread, illuminating the red of her hair, I find I cannot tear my eyes away. I know I shouldn’t move anyway at this point. To move is to risk giving away my position, and I can’t let him know I’m a part of this scene. This moment needs to be only for him.

Him, and the girl on fire.

Who is she to him? I can’t help but wonder. This girl with red curls, being consumed by the blaze…

Is she his wife? His friend, his lover? Or his sister, maybe, but from where I’m standing, it’s impossible to see a family resemblance besides the curls.

He’s dropped his torch in the snow and is walking away, walking southeast. The same direction as the battle from last night. It hits me that it’s possible he’s one of the men of the Night’s Watch. Someone who knows the way to Castle Black. Without thinking, I take a step forward, wondering if I should follow him.

The man stops, and I freeze. I dare not even step back, only hope that if he turns around, the rising smoke and fading light will shield me from view.

He doesn’t turn. As I watch, holding my breath, I see his shoulders slump and tremble, and his head bow in grief.

Deep in my heart, I know that grief. I recognize it so plainly that it throbs in my chest and wells up in my eyes. A tear runs a hot trail down my frozen cheek.

He loved her, I realize, swallowing hard around the lump in my throat. He loved her and she’s gone.

When he leaves, I stay where I am. Clutching the tree, watching him and the burning pyre until the acrid smell of charred flesh is too much for me. Only then do I sneak around the funeral site and trudge the rest of the way back to the camp. Even if he is a man of the Night’s Watch, I can’t chase him down at a time like this, or trail him to the Wall like an unwanted shadow.

It’s getting too dark now. I’m sure I’ll find my own way to Castle Black in the morning.

Returning to the camp, I discover Buttercup is still the only living soul inhabiting it. I slip back into the tent and pull together a dinner for us, including the meat that remains on the spit. Then, saying a silent thank you to whoever lived here last, I slip under the warm furs and go where I know Peeta will find me.

Chapter Text

I'm out hunting again first thing in the morning. There's a deer out there and I want it. First I check near the lake in case it's gone there for a drink, but after slaking my own thirst, I follow a set of tracks that take me east again. Just north of my camp. It must've been quite familiar with the area and the fact that there were hungry humans inhabiting it, so it went up and around.

Well, I can do that too. Bow in hand, I track it down and spook it into heading south. If – when – I hit it, I don't want to have to drag it back a long way. As if the gigantic white tree with the red leaves and the gaping mouth isn't spooky enough to send it in the other direction…

I record it for Beetee, of course, but that thing gives me the creeps. As far away as I've gotten, I can still feel it watching me.

The deer keeps evading me. At least it's heading farther south. I know I'm close to the camp now, and I know I'm catching up. Today, the deer is mine; it's only a matter of time.

Spotting it again through the trees, I move soft and swift across the snow. It's meandering slowly south, turning its head and sniffing the air as if unsure. As I gingerly pull my bowstring back, its ear does a little twitch.

But I've got it. I know I've got it. No distractions this time. I calm myself with the gentlest breath. Narrow my eyes. Ready my fingers to set the arrow loose…

And that's when the stupid cat comes flying across the forest floor, bolting after a terrified rabbit that scampers right in front of my own prey's path. Sufficiently freaked out, the deer gives a start and moves to flee. Cursing under my breath, I act fast and adjust my aim, releasing the arrow. The deer falls.

I'd cheer, but I'm absolutely furious.

"You damn cat!" I snarl, chasing after him. Cats are fast, but so am I when I'm angry.

Buttercup skids across the snow, weaving through the trees with the same determination I had hunting that deer. He's an old cat, and sure he's been keeping up with me on this journey, but I'm still begrudgingly amazed he has it in him, this bizarre stamina. Maybe he knows that he's dead meat when I catch him.

Spare him for Prim, spare him for Prim, spare him for Prim, I have to keep chanting to myself in my head as a reminder. He's Prim's cat. Prim, Prim, Prim…

That doesn't mean I can't plan a little revenge. Once I get my hands on him, I swear…

I burst through the trees, emerging at the edge of the forest where the snow begins to thin out into trampled slush and dirt. Once the landscape is firm and flat, it doesn't take long for Buttercup to speed up and pounce upon his prey. I don't want to interrupt, so I clench my fists and allow myself a moment to steady my pulse.

Of course, when I raise my eyes, the sight in front of me gets it racing again.

I'm trembling as I let my gaze climb ever higher, shuddered breaths finally coming out in broken puffs. My fingers fumble blindly with the microphone and camera in my haste to contact Beetee. He needs to see what I'm seeing. He needs to see it now.

"Beetee," I murmur, feeling unfathomably small. "I'm here."

The grandeur of the Wall simply cannot be overstated. My dreams as of late were correct in picturing it as a mountain of ice and snow, but they never could have done it justice. The glimpse I got of it the other night could not do it justice. It reaches hundreds of feet into the air and stretches across the horizon from east to west as far as I can possibly see. Glistening, sparkling in the sun as if it were made of diamonds and opals and moonstone. There's a gate in the near distance, but compared to the colossal fortress it's built into, it looks like the tiniest of mouse holes.

Beetee breathes out a rather colorful curse of disbelief. "Now that's a Wall…"

I fixate on the gate and glance up from that point. A lookout post protrudes from the top. It's a long way up, but I can see people standing there. Four of them in particular, like ants on a hill. Three are dark specks, one blacker than the others. The fourth is red like fire, and from their movements, I wonder if this person is looking directly at me. My suspicions heighten when the other three turn to look as well.

"It's Castle Black," I say with growing certainty, a particular decisiveness in the way I shift my quiver on my shoulder. "I'm going over there."

Stealing the rabbit from Buttercup, I stuff it and the cat in my game bag and start to march back to the camp site. Then I remember what else led me out here and bring the deer back with me. If I'm sent back here, then at least I'll have dinner waiting for me. If not, I can tell them where to find it. Grabbing my pack, I pull together my things, put on my mockingjay pin for luck, and head straight to the edge of the forest. Emerging from the trees once more, I trek purposefully across the former battlefield. There's still carnage here and there; I make my way around it. I'm no longer trembling.

Buttercup yowls unhappily from inside the game bag, so I start singing to myself to either shut him up or drown him out. After days and hours of walking, I've waited too long for this and I'm not going to let him spoil my triumph.

My singing finally dies down at the sound of the gate rumbling. It rises slowly and noisily, revealing more men in black furs and cloaks wielding torches.

"Who are you?" asks one, young-faced despite his shoulder-length gray-brown hair. He squints at me, more pensive than distrusting. "A wildling? You don't look it, but…"

"I'm not," I say, although I still don't know what exactly a wildling is. "My name's Katniss Everdeen. I was sent by a man of the Night's Watch. Benjen Stark?"

His eyes grow a fraction wider. Briefly he turns and mouths something to his friends, then looks back at me with furrowed brows.

"Benjen Stark has been lost beyond the Wall for years," he tells me, his voice dripping with doubt.

"I saw him a few days ago, northwest of here," I respond matter-of-factly. "He saved my life, told me to go to Castle Black and get south of the Wall. Said he has a nephew here named Jon. I have a message for him."

The man hesitates, shares another look with the others, and gives a small nod. "We'll bring her in," he says. "Let her speak to Ser Alliser."

His companions gesture for me to come along, leading me into a cold, dark tunnel. I glance left and right as we pass through, feeling very much aware of the fact that I'm walking beneath several hundred feet of ice and snow. Soon the gate closes behind us, the torches now our only source of light in the crushing darkness.

At the other end of the tunnel is another gate, which is now rising as we approach. When we step out under the pale sky again, my new Night's Watch friend halts me and strides ahead, calling out to a commander.

I examine my new surroundings, the courtyard of what appears to be Castle Black. It smells of hay and sweat and smoke, something I'm sure will grow on me. There's a wooden staircase above my head. Lots of stone buildings and wooden stairs and platforms, all dusted in snow. Men are bustling about, some carrying building logs for another pyre, others practicing their swordsmanship as if this is their Training Center. A few of them stop what they're doing when they notice me. Nearby, a rhythmic clanging of hammer against anvil slows significantly.

Unnerved by their stares, I try to look scary and unapproachable. It's what I do best.

The gray-haired guy returns, bringing an older, harder-looking man with black eyes that gleam like a predator's at the sight of me. This must be the commander he was calling for.

"Haven't we brought enough wildlings through this gate?" he rasps, in a stony, frigid tone that holds no welcome for me. "Now we're letting them feed us lies?"

"Alright, what is a wildling?" I ask, keeping a cool mask to hide my exasperation. "I don't even know what that means."

"I'm sure you prefer the term free-folk," he sneers. "But 'round here, you're a wildling, girl. You belong north of the Wall."

"According to Benjen, I'm not," I respond evenly, maintaining eye contact. "He also said it was too dangerous for me out there. Said I needed to come south to Castle Black. Said to ask for his nephew Jon. That he'd keep me safe here."

The commander's mouth forms a paper-thin smile. "What else did Benjen Stark say to you?" he asks. His voice reminds me of a lizard mutt's hiss.

Buttercup gives a muffled growl from within my game bag. I elbow it from behind to shut him up.

"After he helped me during a run-in with the white walkers, he told me they can only be killed with fire and dragonglass," I answer. Maybe this bit of information will be worth something.

When he looks only mildly fazed, I rack my brains for something else.

"He said when he first saw me, he thought he'd seen a ghost," I tell him, and search the faces of the other men surrounding me. "Do I look like someone he used to know? Someone who's dead?"

A silence falls over us. Some of them study me contemplatively. Others exchange glances, and more turn expectantly to a man who looks older than most of them.

"His sister Lyanna," the man speaks up, as realization dawns. "She looks just like her."

Annoyance lingers on the commander's face, but after a pause, he turns to the gray-haired guy. "Well, go on, Tollett," he orders. "Fetch the bastard."

Without hesitation, Tollett rushes across the courtyard. "Jon!"

My eyes trail after him, curious, as he stops in front of some figures who are standing in front of a platform with a cage-like elevator. I catch a glimpse of black and burgundy before he blocks them from view. Then I bring my attention back to the commander. He doesn't seem happy.

"There's a deer back at the abandoned camp in those woods," I say, gesturing over my shoulder. "I just took it down this morning. If your men want it, they're welcome to it."

"Oh, you're quite a little huntress, then, aren't you…" he responds dryly. He nods to some of his men, then glances towards Tollett again. His eyes flash with impatience as they lock on a target, and he raises his voice. "This girl claims to have seen your uncle!"

Following his gaze, I turn my head to meet this Jon, and recognition strikes me through the heart like a breathtaking winter wind. The boy with black curls, the man of the Night's Watch I saw mourning his lover just last night, advances towards me and not away this time, his gray eyes solemn yet alight with hope.

"Uncle Benjen?" he asks. Demands, even, though he's not harsh but desperate as he hastens across the courtyard. "You saw him – where is he?"

We're now face to face, and I know I have to be careful about my words. After what I witnessed yesterday, I don't want to give him another reason to grieve. I can't let his hopes be dashed. But looking into his eyes, darker and even more intense than his uncle's, I feel my resolve crumbling to a pathetic murmur. "He can't come back just yet."

Those Seam-gray eyes fill with worry and endless questions. If he asks too many, I fear I won't be able to answer. "But he's alive?"

Like that one.

I swallow hard, steeling my nerves. "He was up and riding the last time I saw him," I tell him truthfully. "That was five days ago. He came to my rescue when I was surrounded by white walkers. Then he sent me here, to get beyond the Wall and find you. He wanted you to know he's still out there, fighting."

Jon's features relax. There's still worry, of course, but he breathes out a sigh of relief and turns to Tollett with a small smile. His friend doesn't seem the smiling type, but he does look happy for him.

The commander, on the other hand, doesn't share in their joy.

"You believe every word of that, do you?" he sneers at Jon. "A pretty girl comes south of the Wall claiming a ranger who hasn't returned to Castle Black in years is alive and well out there by himself, and you eat it up like a cube of sugar from the palm of her hand. Are we to believe she's not a wildling just because she has the face of a dead girl? She might've been the one who killed him."

"What, three, four years ago?" Tollett scoffs. "She's just a girl, Ser Alliser. She can't be older than eighteen."

"Even their girls start killing young," Ser Alliser intones.

"She doesn't dress like a wildling," another man says.

"Stolen clothes," Ser Alliser counters. "Off some highborn girl."

"That she met beyond the Wall?" asks another brave soul. "She doesn't dress like any highborn I've ever met."

"And you've met many highborns, have you?" Ser Alliser flings back at him. His beady eyes shift back to me, glinting with suspicion. "Well, if you're not from beyond the Wall, then where do you come from?"

I open my mouth to answer, but how can I? My name is Katniss Everdeen. My home is District Twelve…

There is no District Twelve. It doesn't even exist here…

"She is from neither north of the Wall nor south of it," comes a silky feminine voice from behind Jon and Ser Alliser. They turn in surprise, parting to reveal an auburn-haired woman dressed in red.

She stares at me, smiling, and I recognize the feel of her piercing red gaze. She's the same fire ant who was watching me from the top of the Wall.

"Let her pass, Ser Alliser," she continues. "It was the Lord of Light who brought her here."

And then, from safely tucked inside my ear: "The name's Beetee, actually."

It's all I can do not to break into a grin. I manage to purse my lips and transform my restrained snicker into a sigh of relief.

Ser Alliser's face sours, clearly not wanting to take any order from this woman. But then his focus shifts to the person who appears next to her – a tall, humorless, somewhat regal-looking man who looks like he could call for his execution with a snap of his fingers at the slightest hint of disrespect – and his expression cools. He sends Jon and me a look of poorly veiled distaste before storming away.

"She's under your care now, Lord Snow," he proclaims without looking back. "You couldn't protect your first wildling whore, let's hope you do a better job with this one."

The "Lord Snow" part briefly throws me for a loop, bouncing around uncomprehendingly in my head, then the rest registers as a mix of rage and grief smolders in Jon's eyes and he almost lunges for blood. Tollett's reflexes are fast enough to stop him, holding him back by the shoulders.

As he mutters something to Jon, I gaze past them to the woman in the wine-red dress. She smiles at me again – no, it's more of a knowing smirk – before turning gracefully away to walk with the stern middle-aged man beside her.

For some reason, she deeply unnerves me. I'm grateful that she vouched for me, however much I hate to owe people. But then I remember how she did it. What she said.

She is from neither north of the Wall nor south of it.

This makes no sense, but it's also true. How does she know…? What does she know?

Jon turns back to me with an apologetic smile, breaking me out of my thoughts. "Ser Alliser Thorne," he tells me. "He's acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

"And, let me guess, one of your oldest and dearest friends," I quip.

He actually laughs, with a soft shake of his head. His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Not quite," he admits, and looks more closely at me. "What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen," I say, only a little distracted by the scars that run vertically from eyebrow to cheek.

Of course, the scars do nothing to mar his objectively attractive features. If anything, they add to his appeal. With his dark curly hair, serious eyes, subtle scars, and slight beard, he has an air of personified winter about him. Fierce, severe, and beautiful, almost like a wolf.

Then he opens his mouth and says the only three words that could shatter all of that.

"I'm Jon Snow."

Chapter Text

“Snow?” I echo, in an embarrassingly small voice.

The name conjures up images not of wolves, but snakes. Paper-white hair and roses, red stains on a handkerchief, blood dribbling from thick lips into a full white beard as the effects of his poisons finally take their toll. None of this matches up with the man standing before me, smelling like smoke and crisp winter air instead of blood and perfumed roses. Not a small, thin, ugly old dead man, but a young, dark beauty. The contrast almost disorients me.

We’re in an entirely different world, I have to remind myself. There can’t possibly be any relation.

My sudden expression change must’ve been obvious because I see his face fall, just a fraction, but with resignation in his eyes like he’s somehow used to it. I immediately feel bad; his name is not his fault. I thought he’d be a Stark, but this Lyanna woman must’ve had the misfortune of marrying a Snow.

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just… back home, the last name Snow has a negative association tied to it.”

He gives a weak chuckle. “It’s no different in Westeros, I’m afraid.”

“Really? I thought maybe it was pretty common around these parts.” I gesture to the piles of snow in the corners of the courtyard.

He glances around at the snow, then back at me consideringly. “It’s the name given to a bastard who was born in the North,” he says at last.

“Oh, well, where I come from, it’s the name of a bastard who was born in the Capitol,” I say, smirking wryly at my own joke.

I hear Beetee losing it in my ear and realize my devices might prove to be a distraction, so I turn off my earpiece for the time being, disguising the gesture by brushing a lock of hair behind my ear. Of course, Jon has no idea what or who I’m talking about, but he does manage a curious, confused little half-grin. At least the humor has returned to his face.

“So, you mean ‘bastard’ as in, born out of wedlock?” I ask. “So, in the North, if your parents aren’t married, they just give you the last name Snow.”

“Is that not how it’s done in…” He puzzles briefly before looking to me for help.

“District Twelve,” I finish for him. “In Panem.” His brow furrows more deeply in thought, but before he can tell me what I already know, that he’s never heard of such a place, I continue, “And no. Illegitimate children just take their mother’s last name.”

Jon nods, eyes darkening in solemn reflection. He’s the brooding type, this one. He turns to walk away and I sense I’m meant to follow.

“I never knew my mother,” he tells me, staring straight ahead with a frown. “My father never even told me her name.”

This briefly catches me off guard. “Not Lyanna?” I ask, which causes him to stop in in his tracks and wrinkle his brow at me in confusion. “They mentioned your uncle Benjen had a sister, Lyanna. I just assumed she was your mother.”

“She was my aunt,” Jon corrects, and we resume walking. “My father was Ned Stark, their older brother.”

I shake my head at myself, feeling sort of stupid. “Right. People can have more than one sibling.”

Jon chuckles appreciatively. “Is that also uncommon where you’re from?”

“Not at all,” I reply. “My… a former friend of mine has three. Two younger brothers and a little sister."

“I had five,” says Jon.

“Five!” I can’t help but note that he keeps using past tense, but currently I’m trying to wrap my mind around six children. I remember that Rue was the oldest of six, but still. “I could never have that many kids. I still don’t know if I could stomach having one.”

“You don’t like children, then?” Jon comments, sounding faintly surprised, though I sense no judgment in his tone.

“I like them.” Posy’s sweet face springs to mind. I miss her as much as I miss Prim. “I just… grew up in a world that wasn’t safe for them.”

“I understand,” Jon murmurs. “Our Night’s Watch vow has us swear to take no wives and father no children, so I’ll never have to worry about that. But it also kept me from coming to my brother’s aid in this war. The last time I saw him, or any of my younger brothers and sisters, was before I came to Castle Black. Now my brothers are dead, and my sister Arya as well. As for my other sister, Sansa, there’s no word of her.”

This slows me, as if my feet are encased in cinderblocks. My heart feels just as heavy. “I’m sorry,” I say softly. The loss of one sister left my spirit in utter ruin. I don’t think I could endure a pain five times that.

His aunt, his brothers and sister, his lover, presumably his father… all dead. His uncle, too, but now I feel even more certain I should keep this to myself.

No wonder he and Benjen look so grim.

“Too many lives have been lost to this war,” he says at last. “I’m going to introduce you to a friend of mine who will help you get situated. There’s someone I need to speak with before nightfall comes.”

I nod, adjusting my quiver on my shoulder, and keep up with him as he leads me across the courtyard. We stop in front of a stout, round-faced man, who is talking to a small, doe-eyed woman as she sits at a table doing needlework. I say “man” and “woman,” but they don’t look much older than I am. They both have gentle, serene features, not as severe as Jon’s or Ser Alliser’s.

“Sam, Gilly,” Jon says, getting their attention. He nods in my direction. “Someone I’d like you to meet.”

“Katniss Everdeen,” I tell them.

The man – Sam, I’m guessing – brightens in recognition. “Oh, like the plant!”

I relax, relieved that’s the only association he has with my name. “Yes. Good to know you guys have it in Westeros too.”

“Honestly I’ve never heard of it,” Jon admits.

“You would have if you’d read the library’s botanical books,” says Sam. “They’re also known as Sagittaria, or arrowheads. Very fitting,” he adds with a chuckle, gesturing to my bow.

“Are they safe to eat?” Gilly asks, considering.

“Aye,” says another voice. I turn to find an older man with a full gray beard and friendly brown eyes standing there. “Their tubers are. You can eat them like potatoes. They’re quite good, actually. King Stannis himself could tell you that. They were among the foodstuffs I smuggled into the castle when he was besieged at Storm’s End.”

There’s something very endearing about him. Maybe it’s the warmth in his voice, or the fact that he’s a self-professed smuggler. “My father used to tell me, ‘As long as you can find yourself, you’ll never starve,’” I say.

“Your father sounds like a wise man,” he says matter-of-factly.

I smile faintly. “He was.”

He nods to us and briskly walks away. I decide I like him a lot better than Ser Alliser.

“My father named me after the gillyflower,” Gilly says. “I’m not sure if you can eat it.”

“It’s beautiful,” I assure her. “You’re like my little sister. Her name was Prim, for the primrose.”

Gilly smiles. “Prim,” she repeats. “That’s pretty.”

“I’m Samwell Tarly.” Sam laughs nervously. “It’s not any kind of plant, but… you can call me Sam.”

“Nice to meet you both,” I say. “After almost a week beyond the Wall, it’s good to see another living human aga—”

A harsh sniffing sound, coupled with Buttercup’s anxious growl, forces me to look over my shoulder. Right behind me, nosing intently at my game bag and trying to get it open, is a gigantic white wolf with blood-red eyes. I whip around and stumble backward with a cry, shifting my game bag and clutching it to my chest. Buttercup hisses angrily and pokes out a paw, swatting blindly.

“Ghost!” Jon scolds, stepping forward and holding out a hand like commanding a dog to stay. “Ghost, no. Back off.”

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. The wolf comes up to my chest, enormous and intimidating, but it stops sniffing my bag to cock its head at Jon like a confused puppy. It licks its chops hopefully.

“Back off, boy,” Jon repeats.

“It’s okay, he probably smells the rabbits,” I offer, trying to avoid direct eye contact with the wolf. To my credit, I think my breathing and heart rate are slowly returning to normal.

Buttercup growls again, and Ghost retreats to Jon’s side.

“Is that a cat?” Sam asks.

I lift the flap and let him peek his head out; he’s probably furious with me by now. “My sister’s cat, Buttercup.” Looking at Jon, I shift my grip on the bag. “Ghost won’t eat him if I let him out, will he?”

“Don’t eat him, Ghost,” Jon says firmly, running his fingers through the wolf’s fur.

Satisfied, I loosen my grip, and Buttercup scrambles out and runs away. I’m vaguely concerned but I’m done chasing him for today. “Stupid cat.”

Jon continues to stroke Ghost’s fur, perhaps holding him back from chasing after Buttercup and making a fluffy orange snack out of him.

“Maester Aemon will want to meet her as well,” says Jon. “Keep her company and get her settled in. I’d do it myself, but I need to speak to Mance and there isn’t much time.”

With that, he rushes off in a hurry, making his way towards another wooden platform of stairs that lead up to part of the stone castle. He passes the pyre that the men have been building, which is starting to look more like a stake for burning witches.

Uncomfortable with the sight, I glance back to Sam and Gilly. “Who’s Mance?” I ask. He must be important if Jon doesn’t want to keep him waiting.

“Mance Rayder,” Sam clarifies. “You’ve never heard of him? He calls himself King Beyond the Wall. King Stannis and his men took him and the wildlings prisoner yesterday.”

“Oh.” I think of the thousand hoofbeats I heard in the forest. “Then it must’ve been his camp I stayed at last night.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Sam says earnestly. “The way you speak… where exactly do you come from?”

“I’ve never heard anyone talk like you north of the Wall,” Gilly notes. To Sam, she adds, “I think she sounds very interesting.”

I smile, knowing explaining will be fruitless. “I’m from Panem. District Twelve.”

“District Twelve?” Gilly repeats, with the expected amount of confusion.

The best thing to do is probably to keep talking like it’s a lesser-known part of this world. “Panem’s made up of twelve – thirteen districts,” I explain, trying to sound informative but casual. “I’m from Twelve. The coal-mining district.”

“I’ve never seen Panem on any maps,” says Sam, though he sounds friendly and not untrusting. “It must be very far away.”

“It is,” I agree. “To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure how I got here.”

Which is, in fact, the truth, as I still have no idea how Beetee accomplished multidimensional travel.

“That’s a lovely pin,” Gilly says, changing the subject as she finishes her needlework. “The bird.”

I brush a finger over it reflexively, only now remembering it’s there. “Thank you.”

“Is it your house sigil?” Sam asks.

“House sigil?” Does each individual house here have a sigil? Maybe I should learn the customs of this world while I still have a harmless teacher. “What’s that?”

“The symbol that represents each house – do you not have houses in Panem?” Sam asks.

“Well, we live in them,” I offer feebly.

Sam smiles appreciatively. “The Great Houses are the noble families of Westeros, and there are also many vassal houses, families who have sworn fealty to the Great Houses. All the houses have mottos and sigils to represent them. Symbols they put on flags, shields, and even pins like yours.” He gestures to me. His pale eyes seem to grow brighter as he shares information. “For example, House Tarly’s sigil is a striding huntsman – an archer, like you. Red on green. The House words are ‘first in battle.’”

Gilly beams at him with loving pride. “Sam's a true warrior. He killed a white walker and a Thenn.”

I don’t know what a Thenn is, but she puts more emphasis on it than a white walker, so it must be pretty dangerous. Sam’s tougher than I thought.

He’s also modest, as he blushes at the praise and briefly smiles into his lap. I think if these two had a baby together, their child would be just like Delly Cartwright. “Then, for House Stark, it’s a gray direwolf against a white backdrop. Their words are ‘winter is coming.’” I glance over at Ghost, who has found something else to sniff and chew on besides me. I’m guessing that’s what a direwolf is, a wolf of terrifying size. “I don’t suppose you have anything like that in Panem. Houses and sigils, I mean.”

“Nothing for families. We have Seals for each district, but it’s not as creative as House Tarly,” I answer. “Basically, it just represents each district’s industry. Carved into stone. No colors or anything. District Twelve is coal mining, so our Seal has train tracks, two pickaxes, and a mining helmet.”

“Oh,” Sam says in fascination, perhaps at least pretending to know what I’m talking about. I haven’t seen any railroads yet, but then again, I’ve barely been beyond the Wall.

Gilly, however, wrinkles her brow and dares to ask, “What’s a train?”

Of course, Sam is flummoxed, so I cover for him by answering first. “It’s a mode of transportation, like a cart or a wagon or a carriage, that runs on wheels across a path of wooden planks and metal rails on the ground. We burn coal for fuel, and it travels pretty fast.”

Gilly looks enthralled. “How fast?”

I shrug. “Faster than horses,” I tell her. “Like the wind.”

“Can you ride them?” she asks, her wonder persistent. She’s very determined to learn things. A good thing for Sam, but potentially risky for me.

“You can ride in them,” I say.

She looks satisfied, but thoughtful. “I want to ride in a train…” she says decisively, then does some finishing touches with her sewing before she looks back up at me. “What do you think your house sigil would be if you had one?”

Her question takes me by surprise. “I… I don’t know.”

“You should come up with one!” Sam says encouragingly, sounding excited. “And your House words, too! Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight who spoke to you about the tubers, his House is rather new. He founded it himself.”

“I think your sigil should be the bird on your pin,” Gilly informs me. “What kind is it?”

“It’s a mockingjay,” I say. I unpin it from my coat and hold it out for them to see. Sam gently takes it and inspects it. “A cross between a mockingbird and a jabberjay, which is a rare bird from Panem.”

“Is this gold?” Sam asks in amazement. When I nod, he traces it gently with a finger before handing it back to me. “It’s finely crafted.”

“Mockingjay…” Gilly repeats slowly, savoring the word. “Do they sing like mockingbirds?”

“They do.” I think of my father, singing back and forth with the mockingjays as he walked through the woods. “They’re known for their ability to mimic any vocal sounds. Any melody you sing to them, they can whistle back to you.”

I gaze down at the pin in my hand, running my thumb over the circle and the bird’s wings.

“House Everdeen would be a mockingjay,” I say. “Orange like the sunset, with a forest green background. An arrow in its beak.”

Sam’s and Gilly’s expressions show immense approval. “And your words?” Sam asks.

This gives me pause. Words, words, words. First in battle. Winter is coming. “What are some more examples?”

“Well…” Sam leans back, thinking. “House Targaryen is ‘fire and blood.’ House Baratheon, ‘ours is the fury.’ House Tully, ‘family, duty, honor.’ House Tyrell, ‘growing strong.’”

Those are good words. Concise and memorable. I try to mull over the sayings and phrases that mean anything to me.

May the odds be ever in your favor. No, those would be the words of the Capitol.

As long as you can find yourself, you’ll never starve. No, that’s too long. Not punchy enough.

Stay alive. More condensed, but I should save it for House Abernathy.

Fire is catching. Almost there. It just sounds too similar to ‘winter is coming.’

Then I think of them. The words that aren’t too long, too vague, or too personal. The ones that, in any world, can have power and truly mean something.

“House Everdeen,” I repeat, pinning the sigil back on my coat. “‘If we burn, you burn with us.’”

Chapter Text

Inside the castle, Sam and Gilly take me to meet this Maester Aemon that Jon was talking about. He's elderly, perhaps close to a hundred years old, which is a rare and almost impossible feat in Panem. He's also blind, his eyes nearly as white as the soft feathery hair on his head. But they're kind, much kinder than Ser Alliser's, and he gives a faint smile when he learns my name.

"For the water plant," he says fondly. A warm fire pops and crackles behind him. "You bring good news, Katniss Everdeen. Many had thought Benjen Stark lost beyond the Wall – myself included. Though I should wonder why he has not returned."

I remain silent, unsure how to respond, or if I even need to. If I say anything more, it will have to be a lie, and I sense that this man will see right through it.

"No matter." He looks in my direction. "I imagine Jon Snow was only relieved to hear that his uncle was safe."

Again, the word choice makes me hesitate. Is there a certain safety in death? Or undeath, if we're being technical. "No one's really safe north of the Wall," I counter. It sounds argumentative coming from me, especially when directed at a kind elderly man, so I add, "Or so Benjen tells me."

"No, indeed not," Aemon agrees. "And am I to understand you are foreign to the lands south of it?"

"Yes, I'm from Panem," I tell him. If nothing else, he may at least hear the truth in my voice.

"Panem." He speaks as if he accepts this, though his brow wrinkles in thought.

"District Twelve," Gilly offers helpfully, and throws me a quick smile to show she's been listening. "The coal-mining district."

"Well, Katniss Everdeen from Panem and District Twelve," says Maester Aemon, "we at Castle Black owe you a debt of gratitude. Not just for bringing word of our lost First Ranger, but, as I am told, for the venison stew we will be having for dinner. As such, you will be our guest for the time being. You must be weary from your time beyond the Wall."

"Thank you, Maester," I say, hoping I'm pronouncing that right, "but while I'm here, I'd kind of like to earn my keep."

He nods, thinking over it for a second. "Do you cook as well as you hunt, my dear?"

"Yes." Not as well as I hunt, but I don't think he means to split hairs. "Helped keep my mother and sister fed for years."

"Very good," Aemon says. "We lost a great deal of men in battle two nights ago. One of them was Pyp, a dear friend and steward. You may take his place in the kitchens with Hobb and Gilly. After all, we are currently hosting a king and his army, and a great many wildling prisoners. I dare say we could use the help."

"Couldn't she help in the library with us?" Gilly blurts out, then falters and looks from Sam to Aemon. "Sorry, I don't mean to-"

"It is fine, my dear," Aemon says, raising a hand to stop her. "If she so chooses. Can you read and write, Katniss?"

The question makes me blink, since I am eighteen and I'm sure I sound like it. Maybe education is a luxury here. In fairness, most schools in Panem are centered around working in each district's industry, but at least they taught us how to read. "I can," I tell him, and the thought of a library from another world actually makes me a little curious. "I'd be glad to help. Whatever you need."

In the end, I've amassed a handful of roles. I'm a hunter and gatherer, primarily, but whatever I bring back to Hobb, I'll be plucking and skinning and cleaning with Gilly. Besides that, I get to feed the ravens, which they have in multitudes and use as messengers, and assist Sam in the library now and then. I assume Maester Aemon just wants to keep the three of us together.

He directs Sam and Gilly to show me to my room, commenting on the lack of comfortable beds beyond the Wall. Even as they lead me into a suitably cozy little room with stone walls and candles and an actual door, the furs make me think of my lodgings from last night and frown uncertainly. I set my things down on the bed and hurry back out to the courtyard, where I cross paths with Jon almost immediately. He looks even more grim than before, but he blinks away some of it when he sees me.

"I take it your chat with Mance didn't go well," I say.

Jon looks back at the building I saw him go in earlier, then at the wooden structure that's quickly coming together. "He's too stubborn for his own good."

I've heard that said so many times about myself that I want to crack a grin, but now doesn't seem the time. "What about?"

He considers me for a moment, then gestures at the stake. "Do you see that pyre over there?" he says. "Can you guess what it's for?"

Dread seeps into my chest. I can guess who it's for. "Mance," I say quietly. "Why?"

"King Stannis wants him to bend the knee." Jon glances across the courtyard, at the stern-looking man with the woman in red. "And have the wildlings fight for him in the war."

I'm still waiting for the part that warrants a fiery death. Apparently, refusal is enough, which leaves me incredulous. "Bow or burn? Those are his only two options?"

"And what would you pick, if it came down to it?" he retorts. "If you had led your people this far, and the only thing that stood between you and their safety was—" He realizes he's snapping at someone he's just met and backs off. "Sorry."

Safety? He just said they would be forced into war. I don't think people here know what the word safe means.

"Well, besides saying no, what else did he do?" I mutter, staring over at the pyre.

"He led an attack on Castle Black two nights ago. Many brothers of the Night's Watch died defending it." His voice rasps with concealed emotion. "We lost good men that night."

This slows me. The fire, the mammoths...

"And that was his camp back there," I venture. "The one Stannis raided yesterday."

"Yes, how did you—"

"Sam told me." That's the short answer, anyway. I turn my head toward the part of the castle I saw Jon go in earlier. That must be where they're keeping Mance prisoner. "Is he allowed visitors?"

Jon frowns speculatively at me. "What business do you have with Mance Rayder?"

It's a reasonable question. A strange girl from a land no one's heard of coaxes her way inside Castle Black with information that's too good to be true, and shows a particular interest in one of their prisoners? I'd be skeptical too if I were him.

"I took shelter at that camp last night. Think I even slept in his tent," I say. And because instead I'm Katniss Everdeen, the pinnacle of grace and tact, I add, "I figure I should tell him thank you while I can, you know, before you guys toast him."

His eyebrows jump upwards as he gapes slightly at me, taken aback. All that stuff I carried with me in my pack when I came to this world and I didn't think to bring a filter. I lucked out with Jon because I'm the messenger of good news, but I'm still no good at getting people to like me.

"Who knows?" I tack on quickly. "Maybe I can get him to change his mind."

Softening, he gives a rueful laugh. "You can try," he says, and he leads me to the wooden staircase. On our way up, I discreetly pat the left breast pocket under my coat, just to make sure of something.

There's a guard standing next to what I presume is Mance's cell, but Jon talks his way in and the guard opens the door for me. Inside, a man sits below a small window, hands folded pristinely in his lap. He's wrapped up in a thick leather coat lined with brown fur, a striking contrast from all the black winterwear I've seen here. At the sound of the door creaking, he looks over at Jon and me with an expectant (albeit bemused) eyebrow raise.

"You have another visitor," Jon says, and turns to me. "Katniss, this is Mance Rayder, whom the free-folk call King Beyond the Wall." A pause as he glances between the two of us. I wonder if he's trying to search for recognition, to see if we secretly know each other. "Mance, this is Katniss Everdeen."

Mance regards us for a moment, then turns back to the window. "Do you move on so fast, Jon Snow?"

Jon tenses beside me. "It isn't like that," he replies curtly. "She brought news of my uncle Benjen. She saw him a few days ago north of the Wall."

Mance harrumphs at this. "A pity," he says. "I'd hoped he was dead."

Frown lines deepen on Jon's forehead. He gives me a brief nod, then turns around and walks out of the room, leaving us to it. The door creaks and squeaks shut behind him.

Now that we're alone, I take a daring couple of steps toward Mance. "Yes, because death is just so final around these parts."

His mouth twitches sardonically. "It is if they burn you."

I falter, studying him at a distance. He's not bound or shackled in any way, just sitting below the window as if pondering his fate. The silence that falls between us is filled with the sounds of his pyre being built right outside.

I think of my sister, lighting up in a flash. And of my father, instantly vaporized by the explosion in the mines. Their deaths were horrific, but swift. Mance's will be a slow and painful agony. The torture of being a fire mutt, of flames licking relentlessly at my skin, is not one I'll soon forget.

"How long do you have?" I ask. How long, I wonder, must he sit in this dismal little dungeon knowing what's coming for him?

"Until nightfall," he says, and then he looks over at me. "Don't tell me he sent you in to sway me. A pretty face couldn't change his mind, nor will it mine."

I edge closer, moving to lean against a pole. "Actually, I came to thank you."

"Thank me?" Dark eyes grow more focused, thick brows giving a subtle yet quizzical lift as his wrinkled features soften. I've won his curiosity.

"You indirectly gave me shelter last night," I tell him. "I found your camp after the soldiers raided it. I assume the biggest tent was yours. A bed to sleep in, a fire to keep warm, I even helped myself to the meat that was left on the spit." Then I beetle my own brow, because I have to ask. "By the way, what the hell was in those cups?"

He eyes me challengingly. "It's a proper northern drink, as I told your friend Jon Snow."

"Oh," I say, and shrug. "Well, the cat liked it."

Mance gives a great bark of laughter. "Oh, aye?" he says, grinning at me. "The cat?"

His laughter is contagious. I can't help smiling a bit as I take a step forward. "Does that mean he's a proper northerner?"

"It means he's a cat, who likes milk," he answers as if it's obvious, still in a good humor.

I snort appreciatively. "I saw your army attacking Castle Black," I inform him. "Did you start the fire?"

"Aye, did it singe you?" he asks.

"No, I wasn't that close, but I got a good view of it," I say. "I've been caught up in a forest fire before, though. A fireball got my leg. Hurt like hell." I look at him meaningfully. "I wouldn't wish that pain on anyone."

He harrumphs. "Thought you weren't here to sway me."

"I'm not," I say, dragging a makeshift seat over to sit down across from him.

"I told Jon Snow I wouldn't have my people bleed for a southern king—"

"I don't blame you," I assure him. Sitting this close, I see calm defiance etched into his sharp features. I see graying hair and a weathered face, and laughter lines at the corner of his mouth. I see the men of District 12, heading off to the coal mines. "You won't let your people be his slaves. I can understand that. I don't want you to give up your freedom. To be forced to kill and die for him." I meet his eyes, shrewd and brown. "But I also don't want you to burn."

"It's not the death I would've picked for myself," Mance admits. "Beheading would be quicker. Hanging…" he trails off, his expression thoughtful as his attention turns toward the window. "Whether by war or by fire, Stannis wants me to die screaming. I don't want my people to see me like that. But between the two choices..."

"What if there was a third?" I ask. Reaching out, I touch his hand to get him to look back at me, and I lower my voice. "Maybe they don't get to hear you scream."

With that, I reach two fingers into my left breast pocket and dig out what I have hidden inside. I extend my palm, revealing a deep violet capsule.

"It's called a nightlock pill," I tell him. "Works in a minute. If you can take it just before they burn you, you won't feel any pain."

He opens his hand and lets me place it in his own palm, but then he just peers at it doubtfully. "I don't think your medicine will fare well against fire—"

"You won't feel it," I insist, and stare firmly into his eyes so that he will understand my meaning.

He does. His mouth twitches, his expression turns grave. "Why do you have this?" he asks, frowning as he searches my face.

"In case I ever got into a sticky situation like yours." It was the one packing request I'd made of Beetee that had taken some convincing, but he got it for me. He understood I was taking a risk in going through his portal. "I would need a choice. A way out."

His frown deepens. "Who are you, girl?"

"Just someone who owes you a favor," I say. "Trust me, your people would rather bleed than hear your screams."

The jabberjays from the Quell still wail through Prim's voice in my dreams. I don't even want to think about hearing her burn. I was mercifully spared that torture…

I'm drawn out of my thoughts as Mance takes my hand and drops the pill back in my palm, folding my fingers over it before gently pushing it towards me. Surprised, I look up at him questioningly, but he just shakes his head.

"Keep it, girl," he says, giving my hand a pat. "Unless you have enough of that nightlock for all the free-folk, I will not take it. I won't kneel for Stannis Baratheon but I won't kneel for death either." He gives a decisive nod. "I stand with my people. I will burn for my people."

I gape at him, at a loss for words. A cleaner, gentler way to die was literally within his grasp and he's refused it. No wonder Jon's so frustrated with him. This man, however likable, is infuriatingly noble.

The pill sits in my palm, small and purple and simple. "Are you sure?" I ask, wary as I glance up at him.

Mance merely arches his brows. "I'm thankful for the offer," he says. "I am. But you owe me nothing, girl. And if you have something like that with you, I suspect it's because you feel you may yet need it. Though I hope you never will."

I slip the pill back into my pocket, tucking it into place. "I still wish there was something I could do for you," I mutter.

"Do you know any songs?" he asks, gazing out the window again. "You might sing something for me."

I chew on my lip, considering. "One springs to mind. But it's kind of dark."

He chuckles wryly. "Dark?" he echoes. "Do you hear what's outside? Sing what you like, Katniss Everdeen. The last song I hear will be the sounds of men building my funeral pyre."

So maybe it's crass, or maybe it's befitting, but after a pause, I begin to sing.

"Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

There's no mockingjays joining in with their melodies, just my own, as it resonates through Mance's prison cell. He looks at me curiously, the lyrics making their mark.

"Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Where the dead man called out for his love to flee.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

I hear that familiar hush again. Not just the silence of birds – the world is quiet. The hammering outside has slowed, stopped.

"Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Where I told you to run, so we'd both be free.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

Mance doesn't watch me as attentively as the camera crew at the lake, but he listens, with a faraway look in his eyes. I think I hear him humming along under his breath, same as I did when my father first taught it to me.

"Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree…"

A few more verses and a goodbye later, I step out of Mance Rayder's cell with the song playing over and over again in my head, and the nightlock pill right where it was when I went in. I see Jon standing in the courtyard as I descend the staircase. Everyone is staring again, not with suspicion as they did when I first arrived, but with varying levels of astonishment. Jon is almost as wide-eyed as the rest of them, though his gaze looks a bit more expectant.

"You were right," I tell him dismally when he meets me at the bottom. "He's too stubborn for his own good."

Chapter Text

Jon looks disappointed but less surprised at the news that Mance has once again refused his life. But before he can say anything, another voice chimes in.

"You sing very beautifully."

I turn to find the source, a young girl between Posy's and Prim's age with a striking appearance. For the most part, she is fresh-faced, except her left cheek resembles the camouflage that Peeta used to blend in with the rocks and mud – a gray, flaky texture, almost like scales stretching from her forehead to her chin. In her case, I don't think it's paint, just scarred flesh. Her hair is long and dark like mine, but her eyes shine bright and blue like Prim's as they gaze up at me. What really sells the likeness for me is the fact that she's holding Buttercup securely in her arms, and he seems happy about it.

"Thank you," I say, doing my best to swallow down the emotions she's shaken loose. In a world where the dead rise and roam and kings sentence people to burn, everything inside me warns to stay away from someone like her. "I'm a little embarrassed you heard that. My mother would say it's too scary for children."

"My mother would say so, too. But I've heard worse songs from my father's men at the camps," the girl says, and strokes Buttercup's fur. He's purring shamelessly. "Gilly says this is your cat."

"His name is Buttercup. He belonged to my sister," I tell her. "I look after him now, but he's a mean old thing. Never really liked anyone but her."

"Really?" She looks at the happy little furball in her arms. "He's been nothing but nice to me. He even came up and said hello. Isn't that right, Buttercup?"

He nuzzles into her chest with his spoiled kitten meow, and I fight an urge to roll my eyes at him. Of course. I see how it is.

Instead, I trade an eyeroll for a smile. Buttercup has only seen exactly what I see. "Well, he does seem to like you," I say. "If he's letting you hold him like this, you must be someone special."

She beams back at me, a sweet sunny warmth in this dreary place, like the primrose I found in the forest at the end of winter earlier this year. I'm wondering what flower might share her name, when a familiar silky voice makes both of us lose our smiles.

"She is Princess Shireen of the House Baratheon," says the auburn-haired woman, who has appeared nearby. "Her father is Stannis Baratheon, the one true king of the Seven Kingdoms."

The girl, Shireen, looks her way with a slight frown. I don't think she cares for this woman either. I decide to steal her attention back. "Princess? I've never met a princess before," I say. "I don't even know what I should be calling you. Your Grace, or Your Highness…?"

"Just Princess, or Shireen is fine," she responds humbly. "What should I call you?"

"I'm Katniss. Katniss Everdeen," I tell her.

Her smile returns. "Kat-niss," she repeats, and gives a small giggle. "I'm giving Kat back her cat. That's funny."

"No one's ever called me Kat before," I say with a laugh. Even Jon wrinkles his nose at the nickname. "Though an old friend used to call me Catnip, because I said my name so quiet that he misheard me. And because a lynx, a much bigger cat, kept following me around in the woods, all hungry for handouts."

Shireen giggles again. "Are you sure he wasn't hungry for you?"

"Nah, we had an understanding," I say with a shrug. "He was good company, too. He didn't hiss at me all the time like this one."

"Come along, Princess," the woman says. She's still standing there, hands clasped neatly in front of her dress. "Your mother and father are waiting for you."

"I'll be there in a moment," Shireen tells her. "I need to return Buttercup first."

The woman gives a small nod, then drifts away, her eyes hardly leaving me. When Jon and Shireen return their gazes to me, I look to them for help. "Who is she, anyway?"

"The Lady Melisandre," Jon explains. "She arrived yesterday with King Stannis and his army."

"Ser Davos calls her the Red Woman," says Shireen, holding Buttercup just a bit tighter. "She's a priestess for the Lord of Light. Father says she's going to help him win the Iron Throne."

"She gives me the creeps," I say, keeping my voice low. "She keeps looking at me like she… knows me."

Jon scoffs lightly. "Yes. She does that," he says. Probably he's also been on the other end of it.

"She says she can see visions in the flames," Shireen murmurs. Then she looks over at me, shifting Buttercup in her arms. "I should go. Mother doesn't like to be kept waiting." Buttercup meows sadly as she sets him down, earning him a few comforting pets. "I know, little friend. I have to go. Katniss will be wanting you back. I hope we'll see each other again."

"Sure, you can play with him whenever you want," I offer, after successfully stifling a snort at the thought of me being desperate for his return. "I actually don't need him back just yet. It seems like he'd rather stay with you."

Her blue eyes grow round with delight. "I can keep him with me?" she asks. "For now, I mean."

"Just make sure he doesn't get eaten," I tell her.

That's apparently the wrong thing to say. A look of perturbed sadness flashes across her face as she picks him back up and hugs him protectively. Then she recognizes I'm half-kidding and manages a smile. "I'll keep him safe, I promise," she says. "If Mother and Father allow him to stay."

She thanks me and says goodbye, hurrying off with her arms full of Buttercup. I think I've just made friends with a princess.

"That was kind of you," Jon says quietly.

I shrug it off. "Well, one girl's trash is another girl's treasure."

He watches Shireen go. "I think you like him more than you let on," he replies. "You brought him with you. You seem protective of him."

"Please, I tried to drown him the moment my sister brought him home," I counter, folding my arms as I watch Buttercup's ugly mashed-in face disappear from view. "He was a scrawny little runt covered in fleas, and we could barely feed ourselves. But Prim cried and begged me to let him stay. If anything happens to him, I just know she'll haunt me forever with her tears."

"Ghost was the runt as well," says Jon.

"Ghost?" I gape at him in disbelief. "The runt?"

"A whole litter of direwolves, still trying to suckle at their dead mother," Jon continues, reminiscent despite looking briefly amused at my reaction. "Father wanted to give them the mercy of a quick death, but my brother Bran pled for their lives. Now look at him."

I'm so lost in my thoughts, imagining a pack of wolves bigger than Ghost, that I almost miss Jon gesturing as if to say, "come here." The enormous white direwolf plods toward us, panting happily, his tongue lolling out of his massive jaws.

I take a step back, feeling my pulse start to race. I have never been this close to a living wolf before – only the mutts from my first Games. Without thinking, my eyes flicker to Ghost's – red, like Melisandre's – and for a moment I'm there in the arena again, seeing human eyes glaring back at me. A shuddered gasp escapes my lips as I back up another step, panicking without my bow and arrows. My heel slips on snow and I reach out blindly for something to catch myself on just as Peeta grasps my arm to steady me.

No, not Peeta. My grip tightens on the wooden banister, grounding me to Castle Black.

Peeta isn't the one holding onto my arm. It's Jon Snow.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

I catch my breath, trying to regulate it, slow it down. "I'm fine," I get out, my voice pathetic and small. "I just… had a bad experience with wolves once."

"He won't hurt you," Jon says, releasing my arm and giving Ghost some love. "Not unless you hurt me. Direwolves are loyal beasts."

Watching Ghost nuzzle his hand, I'm exceedingly grateful I left my weapons in my room. Firing an arrow at his beloved wolf during one of my arena flashbacks would not score me any points with Jon. I sense a strong connection between these two, perhaps even stronger than the one between Prim and Buttercup.

I know what Haymitch would tell me to do in this situation. Make friends.

"Can I pet him?" I ask, then cringe at the way it sounds. "Or is that too…"

He gets up and nods to me, encouraging me to go ahead. Still cautious, I take a glove off and crouch down carefully in front of Ghost, feeling his eyes on me and his hot breath brushing my face. He licks his chops and I almost jump back, but he remains gentle and patient. Or, at least, he hasn't bitten anything off yet.

His fur is so sleek and white. Gale would probably say he'd make a good pelt. I can't help thinking so myself, but I try to get the thought out of my head before I pet him. It seems rude to touch an animal's fur while entertaining such thoughts, let alone an animal belonging to someone else, and also I'm irrationally terrified that this creature might be able to read my mind.

Pushing away my thoughts and fears, I slowly lift an outstretched hand to Ghost. He moves forward and nudges it, accepting the invitation while offering his own.

The breath I was holding escapes me in a cloud of relief, but the surrealness of this situation does not. I do as Jon did and stroke the side of his head – his giant head that could take mine off in one bite. But Ghost doesn't snap, or even bare his teeth. I'm trying to look more at his snout than his eyes, but when I do raise mine to his, they look... benevolent. Or at least, it's as if we've come to a silent agreement that neither of us wants to eat each other. Once we've reached that point, my muscles relax, and I'm able to focus more on the luxurious feeling of stroking a wolf's beautiful coat than my own heartbeat. I'm still exhilarated, but now it's comforting to both of us.

Ghost and I are still bonding when Jon speaks up from behind me. "What did you and Mance talk about in there?"

I slow my affectionate scratches, though Ghost is still curious and hoping for more. "Well, I thanked him. For the lodging and everything," I say, allowing Ghost to sniff my palm. "Told him the cat drank his gross milk; he thought that was kind of funny."

Jon chuckles appreciatively, with a small scoff like he knows exactly what I'm talking about. It's a proper northern drink, as I told your friend Jon Snow, Mance had said. I'm guessing he's already had the pleasure.

"Then I helpfully reminded him that burning alive doesn't feel so hot," I continue, "so I offered him something to make his last night a bit less painful, but he refused."

There's a beat that lasts a few seconds too long, bordering on awkward silence. I play back what I said in my head and turn in realization to see Jon regarding me with flustered surprise, his eyebrows raised in a question he doesn't want to ask.

"Not that!" I say, giving him a scandalized look. Though the resulting blush on his face makes me want to crack up.

He relaxes, embarrassed but mollified by my grin. "What, then?"

I bite my lip and resume loving on Ghost, if only to turn away so Jon doesn't notice my hesitation. "Just some medicine I brought with me from Panem," I answer, edging backward when Ghost bumps his nose a little too close to the pocket that holds my secret. "It could have spared him a lot of torture, but apparently if he took it, he'd be kneeling to death as well as Stannis, whatever that means."

"That sounds like him," Jon says, sounding morose as ever.

I'm relieved when he doesn't ask any follow-up questions about it. There's a part of me that wants to be upfront and honest with him, since he's responsible for me or something and I'm already withholding the truth about his uncle. On the other hand, knowing that the new girl who will be working in the kitchen now and then is in possession of poison might not make him rest easy.

"So, I wanted to know if there was anything else I could do," I say, giving Ghost a final scratch before standing up, "and he asked me to sing."

"Interesting choice for a final song," Jon comments.

I shrug, looking over at the pyre. "I guess it was kind of tasteless. But it was the first one I thought of."

"Where did you hear it?" Jon asks. "Panem, I imagine."

"My father taught it to me when I was young," I confirm, watching the men build. "Too young to know what it really meant. I was making actual rope necklaces for myself and my little sister when my mother caught me. That's right around the time she banned us from ever singing it again." Jon chuckles, since in fairness it's an understandable reaction to such macabre behavior from a child. "It was forbidden in our district, anyway," I add, turning to him with a sheepish smirk. "Too rebellious."

"That's one word for it," Jon replies, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. I can't help but laugh, encouraged by the mirth that breaks through his solemn exterior. When the severe winter in him thaws, there's a glint in his eyes that sparkles more like silver than steel gray, and they crinkle when he smiles, a smile that's almost as sunny as Peeta's—

And with that thought, something splinters. Deep in my chest, or maybe in the air between us. I see it on Jon's face, too, as his humor fades and his eyes open a fraction wider. We both seem to step back at the same time. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the pyre again and envision the dead girl from last night burning on top of it. We both mumble excuses of having somewhere else to be and hasten away in opposite directions.

His wounds are raw, even rawer than mine. I'm not flirting, I don't flirt, and it's not like I'm trying to make something of whatever connection we've made – connections over dead people – but we probably shouldn't get this close. Or at the very least I should tread cautiously.

That moment with the wolf mutt flashback... I'm already associating him with Peeta, which is dangerous territory. It's been less than a year since he died, since Snow's lizard mutts took his head, so how could I even consider replacing him with Jon?

I can just hear it now. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am in love with a man named Snow...

The thought makes me shudder. I'm not in love with him, thank goodness. Even thinking that line to myself wards off the idea, because I'll only be able to picture an old man wearing a rose that reminds me of death rather than romance.

But as far as Snows go, this one is... inoffensive, to say the least. To me, he's just Jon.

That's how Gilly and Sam refer to him when I meet back up with them to go to the kitchens. They're eager to change the subject, though, which I welcome. Except it's to confirm it was me singing to Mance earlier, and mention that Ser Alliser and Stannis were also a part of the audience in the courtyard. Stannis has a harder face than Ser Alliser's, so they're unsure of his feelings on the matter. They only saw him speak to Ser Alliser and Ser Davos before walking away. But the brothers of the Night's Watch liked what they heard.

"I didn't know you could sing," Gilly says, briefly tending to the fussing bundle of baby she's got next to her.

"Do you know any other songs?" Sam chimes in, and chuckles nervously. "Songs that are, perhaps, not so grim."

"I know a few," I say with a shrug. "Can't really use The Hanging Tree as a lullaby when you're trying to put your little sister to sleep."

"I only ask because, well, Pyp was the singer here at Castle Black before he died," says Sam. "Now there's talk among the brothers that Ser Alliser should let you stay. They're saying the Night's Watch could use a songbird."

"Not just a songbird," Gilly corrects, turning her smile from Sam to me. "A mockingjay."

I return her smile awkwardly, not knowing what to say. The title "mockingjay" even follows me over to this world. Though I suppose I walked into that one by making the bird my sigil. And singing a last song for Mance before he dies, just as I did with Rue.

That's how it always starts, with one little song.

The baby fusses some more, rocking the portable wooden cradle that Gilly's placed on the table. "Little Sam wants to hear a song too," Gilly says, granting him a loving touch. "Would you sing something for him?"

I gaze down at Little Sam, watching his small feet kick through his blankets. One of my earliest memories is of being introduced to newborn Prim, hearing her bleat like a little lamb, listening to my father soothe her with lullabies. Even at age four, I knew she was something precious. Going by the tug on my heartstrings, Little Sam threatens to be something precious too.

Oh, well. If this is the only expectation they'll have of me as their Mockingjay, I've lucked out. And as it happens, I have just the song for him.

"Deep in the meadow, under the willow…"

Chapter Text

At nightfall, everyone at Castle Black files into the courtyard and surrounds the pyre for Mance's burning. It seems attendance is as mandatory for an event like this as it was for the reaping for the Hunger Games. Even the other prisoners are present, clinking in their shackles, though it's the lack of black that gives them away. Brown leather and fur keeps them warm, same as Mance.

Wildlings, I realize. Or free-folk, as Jon calls them. One catches my eye as I look to the group on my left. He's taller than all the rest, with messy orange hair and a thick beard. Though he's appropriately solemn, his glance is too curious, so I break eye contact and edge closer to Gilly.

She, Sam, and Tollett (first name Eddison, or Dolorous Edd, as I learned at supper) stand between Jon and me. I get the feeling that he arranged this on purpose, or maybe it's a case of "boys on one side, girls on the other." Either way is fine, but if it's the first one, I don't blame him for wanting to put distance between us. I remember where I was at days after Peeta's death. I know where I'm still at now. I need the distance just as much as he does.

I see Shireen sitting with her mother on a balcony, Buttercup resting in her lap. She sneaks a solemn half-smile at me and strokes Buttercup for comfort. Earlier, she came by to tell me in a hushed, conspiratorial tone that her father said she could keep playing with him.

"Mother doesn't like him, though," Shireen had said, her face falling a bit. "She says he's ugly and deformed. He's missing part of his ear so she says it must mean he gets in fights. I think it means he's brave."

"He is brave," I'd agreed, though I gave Buttercup a look that said this is the only compliment you're ever getting from me. I didn't even mention his fear of storms and dead people. "He's survived some terrible things."

"Like what?" she'd asked, her blue eyes round with wonder.

I'd shrugged. "Fire. Explosions. Living with me."

Shireen had giggled then, but her mother had come up behind her like a ghost and escorted her up to the balcony where they're sitting now.

Her mother, Stannis's Queen Selyse, I can already tell doesn't like me much. A tall, thin woman, she sits stiffly and regally with her hands clasped in her lap, waiting with great anticipation to witness a man's fiery death. Though she must've noticed the subtle exchange between her daughter and me, because now her cold eyes have locked directly on me, and her lips are set in a firm, tight frown. I can't say I blame her. I did sing a morbid and rebellious song to her husband's prisoner and give her daughter a truly hideous cat to play with.

Ser Davos, King Stannis, and Melisandre stand in front of us, waiting by the pyre as some of their men fetch Mance from his prison cell. Melisandre looks over her shoulder at me with a small smile, as if she's pleased that I'm present for such an occasion. As if it's something of an honor. I think if someone doused this fire ant in gray ash, she would be a lot like Coin. Except Coin never smiled this much.

The squeak of a door hinge turns her attention away from me, and we all watch in silence as two soldiers escort Mance down the stairs to his own personal pyre. The only sounds in this courtyard at first are the crackling of torch flames and the clinking of shackles, though my ears start to pick up on something familiar. With each slow, shackled step, Mance carries the tune of The Hanging Tree in a low hum, and only lets it die down after he has come to a stop in front of Stannis.

Our eyes meet briefly, but I'm not exactly cheered by the reprise of the song, or by the fact that he's taken it to heart. Not when I know what I'll have to watch because of it. I feel the true meaning of the song in the air tonight, stronger than I've ever felt it before.

King Stannis, it seems, is not terribly amused either.

"Mance Rayder, you have been called The King Beyond the Wall," Stannis says. "Westeros only has one king. Bend the knee, I promise you mercy."

Another silence falls. Mance looks at all of us – the free-folk, the Night's Watch brothers, Stannis's company – all gathered round to witness a death, be it him or his dignity. His gaze flicks past me to Jon, who I'm sure must be silently pleading with him right now, then to the king once more.

"Kneel and live," Stannis tells him.

Mance takes a moment to consider his words, gives his surroundings a cursory glance. "This was my home for many years," he says at last. "I wish you good fortune in the wars to come."

I knew this was coming, but disappointment sinks to the pit of my stomach anyway. I can feel it coming off of Jon and the others in waves. Stannis must've given a nod, because the two soldiers grab hold of Mance and bring him up to the stake, re-shackling him there.

Feeling for my attached camera, I try to remember if any of my devices are still on or not. Or if I want them to be. This moment feels crucial, but I'm not the Capitol. I don't need to get people's deaths on film, nor does Beetee or anyone else need to be subjected to it. But my fingers seem to have a mind of their own and activate the camera regardless.

As if sensing her cue, Melisandre steps up to the foot of the pyre and turns to her audience, likely in the center of my footage.

"We all must choose," she proclaims. "Man or woman, young or old, lord or peasant, our choices are the same. We choose light, or we choose darkness. We choose good, or we choose evil. We choose the true god, or the false."

Even standing so close to a brazier, chills travel freely through me and turn my arms to gooseflesh. I have a vague understanding of how religion shaped my world in the past, but for decades, Panem was its own religion. The Hunger Games was the god that the Capitol worshiped, and all the districts were forced to bow to it. Whatever Melisandre is going on about is something else. Something just as dangerous.

I watch as she walks over to one of Stannis's men, delicately takes a torch from his hand, and returns to her place in the center.

"Free-folk, there is only one true king, and his name is Stannis," says Melisandre. Gilly's eyes follow the torch in fear as Melisandre uses it to gesture to Mance. "Here stands your king of lies. Behold the fate of those who choose the darkness."

Turning, she wields the torch like a magic wand, lighting the pyre in various places with graceful little taps. Perhaps she thinks herself a painter, and the torch her brush, but this is nothing like art. This is not the beauty that Peeta spread across his canvases.

Real or not real? I am about to watch a man burn to death. The spitting and crackling of the flames and the rising smoke say real. The terror in Mance's eyes says it too, and I feel panic start to thrash about in my chest. It rumbles upward, tightening my throat. Gilly's breath hitches like she is about to cry, but I'm not. If I have any tears for Mance, a fire inside me has turned them to steam.

Yes. I'm angry. Angry that Mance didn't listen to Jon or take the nightlock pill. Angry that I have to witness this. Angry that I have stepped into another world where everyone must burn, living or dead.

Mance is suffering before my eyes. He's tried moving his feet to avoid the flames, but they reach him just after his fear does, giving taunting licks before starting to climb upward. The Capitol would find a death like this slow and dull, like starvation. That's why they pelted me with fireballs in the arena. At least then I would be incinerated quick, like Prim. They might not have to look at my face as horror and agony takes me first.

I can't watch this. My pulse is racing and I'm sweating almost as much as Mance. With the nightlock no longer an option, there is still one way I can put an end to this. My thoughts flit to my weapons, struggling to remember where I left them. Can I get to my bow in time? My feet don't give my brain enough time to figure it out – I'm weaving through the crowd, slipping through cracks, darting around corners.

If I have to be the Mockingjay in this world too, then so be it. I'm not returning to this courtyard without my bow and quiver.

But when I do slip my quiver over my shoulder and head back to look for a high point, a thought stalls me. I push forward anyway and it gives chase up a flight of steps. It sounds like Effie and Peeta and Prim, like a conscience or someone trying to talk some sense into me. Like Haymitch in the earpiece in District 8.

Can I do this? The thought plagues me, even as I find a good spot and pull a black arrow from my quiver. Can I already make a spectacle of myself?

I arm my bow and aim for Mance's head, but the thought bites down and doesn't release.

There will be ramifications for what I'm about to do. Banishment if I'm lucky, execution if not. I don't care what happens to me. But if I put a king's prisoner out of his misery on day one, I'll likely make things a lot more difficult for Jon. Like it or not, as long as I'm here, he's partially responsible for me. Ser Alliser said so himself. He already has it out for Jon; what will happen if I actively defy royalty?

I've just made friends with Jon, something I'm not usually very good at… but can I really let Mance suffer just to avoid making trouble for him?

My fingers twitch at the bowstring, anxious to let the arrow fly. Every second I delay prolongs the torment that I told myself I wouldn't watch. But what am I doing, except aiming and watching?

Mance's screams fill the night air, chilling me more than the snarls of the dead. I can't listen to this. Everyone else is doing nothing but I have to do something. My arm shakes as I pull back the bowstring. I'm the Mockingjay, I have to…

A bow releases and an arrow hits Mance with a thud. Cut off in mid-scream, he gapes down at the arrow protruding from his heart, then he looks up to seek the archer. The shot turns a lot of heads, Stannis's included. It takes me longer to process, because my own heart has stopped and I'm still dumbstruck at the bow that I've lowered, the arrow that I've yet to fire.

I follow everyone else's stares and see Jon at a different high point, with a bow of his own in hand. He lowers it after a moment, watches until Mance's head lolls, then turns away and storms off.

The fire climbs higher, but its ladder is a corpse hanging limp at the stake. The night is silent as a dead man burns.

Finding my breath, I put my arrow back in the quiver, then slink backwards and silently find my way down from my own secret shooting spot. Still trying to make sense of what just transpired. It doesn't hit me until I return my weapons to my room.

The mercy kill is Jon's. He is this world's Mockingjay. The thought fills me with twice as much relief as it does admiration.

Jon Snow is the Mockingjay, which means I don't have to be one anymore.

Chapter Text

Fire invades my dreams tonight.

Chapter Text

Luckily, we reach the top maybe a minute after that, and I can see plenty of fires illuminating the snowy corridors. One of the men on watch duty helps hold the cage steady while Jon opens the door and we step out.

"What are you doing up here, Snow?" he says. "I figured Thorne had you confined to quarters. After the stunt you pulled? And yet here you are, and you've brought a girl."

"A girl Ser Alliser thinks is a wildling," Edd corrects, getting the gate for us. "He probably sent her up with him himself. Thinks she'll throw him over the Wall."

The men have a laugh over that; Ser Alliser's dislike of Jon is apparently common knowledge around here. I consider just going with calling him Thorne in my head, as in "Thorne-in-my-side," and since he's kind of a prick. The thought makes me grin.

"I'm not doing his dirty work for him," I shoot back, which makes Edd laugh some more. He and I already get along well enough, so even if I'm not supposed to be up here, I doubt he really cares.

Jon leads me down corridor after corridor, all of them held together with wood and sturdy snow. The ice beneath our boots is a bit slick in some spots, but there's crushed stone along the path, which helps me keep my footing. With the bitter wind lashing at my cheeks, I'm cheered significantly by each brazier we pass. Sources of warmth and light for what feels like an endless stretch of frozen surface. It's hard to believe there's so much room to wander.

Finally, we come to a lookout post, a wooden frame arching over an opening in the wall. Beyond the brazier just in front of the frame, there's a ledge where you can step out, and then the Wall drops sharply and there's nothing but empty space. It reminds me of the Training Center's roof, though I doubt there's any protective electric field to stop us from plummeting to our deaths.

The sight of the edge alone stops me in my tracks, nerves beginning to twist at my stomach. With my tendency to tree-climb, I've never thought of myself as having any kind of fear of heights, but being seven hundred feet in the air tends to put new thoughts in a person's head. That's seventy times the height I fell from that knocked the wind out of me a few years ago. I don't know what a drop from up here could do to a person. I don't want to find out.

But Jon stops too, and he looks at me expectantly. It must be a rare joy to see someone look off the edge of the Wall for the first time. Remembering Beetee, I turn on my camera, then take a breath and push myself forward. The heat radiating from the brazier gives me another push, and I creep ahead step by step until I've set foot on the ledge. Then my breath catches, and the wind carries it away from me, because suddenly I am looking out over the entire world.

I see the expanse of snow I crossed to reach the Wall. I see the edge of the woods where I emerged, chasing after that damn cat until I realized what was in front of me. I see patches of forest beginning and ending, faint streaks on the sloping landscape, and I think if I looked hard enough in the light, I could venture a guess and point out the exact spot where I appeared in this world.

"It's beautiful," I say, and mean it. I have never seen anything like this. Not in the Capitol, not during the Victory Tour, not ever. Grasping the medallion and holding it to my chest, I imagine Prim and Peeta standing up here with us. Prim taking my free hand, just in case, while tears form in Peeta's eyes as he plans a new painting in his head.

Jon appears at my side, taking in a sight I'm sure he's seen at least a hundred times. "You can't see as much at night, but…" he shrugs, trailing off.

"Oh!" That reminds me. The ride up was so long that I'd forgotten. "Right. I brought a solution for that," I tell him, then fish that solution out of my jacket pocket and hand it over.

He takes it from me uncertainly. "What do I do with this?"

"Put them up against your eyes," I say, miming the action with my hands. He tries and almost pokes himself in the eye, so I laugh and gesture for him to hand them back. "Here, let me." He returns them to me, skeptical, and I place them neatly on his face. As he adjusts them, I'm almost sorry they block out the priceless expression that probably takes over his eyes. At least I get hints of it – a twitch of his open mouth, a drastic lift of his brows. I have to bite a gloved fist to keep back laughter as I watch him glance around in bewilderment; I might as well have put them on Buttercup for the same reaction.

"What are these?" he asks, touching the hinges gingerly like he's afraid they'll shatter on his nose.

"Night-vision glasses." I can tell they're overwhelming him, so I tentatively reach out to take them off. He doesn't object, probably dubious of handling them himself, only watches as I put them on myself and look back at the scene in front of us.

Wow, Beetee was right. These have come in handy after all.

"That's unnatural," Jon says, still reeling.

"Yeah, well, so are White Walkers. But some dead things did try to attack me recently," I counter, and draw in a breath as I admire the fine details that the lenses enhance. It was worth getting swarmed by rotting corpses as long as it meant seeing something like this. The mountains, the trees, brush strokes of green over a winter white canvas…

"He's really still out there," Jon's voice comes again. I cast a side glance at him, and he looks at me briefly before returning his attention to the lands north of the Wall. "Uncle Benjen."

Sensing he's looking for clarification, and feeling a little silly with the night vision glasses still on, I take them off and put them away.

"We went out beyond the Wall, and we searched, and we searched, but we never found him," Jon continues. "You're the first person to see or speak with him in years. What happened? Why hasn't he come back?"

I go silent for a moment, letting the wind say its piece. We're approaching risky territory here. "I can't really say," I reply. Can't or won't? It's not my secret to tell, though I feel like I should. "I can only tell you how I came to meet him."

He nods, and we both make ourselves comfortable on opposite sides of the lookout post's little window. Then I tell him everything that I dare, starting with how I was walking through the woods with Buttercup when I heard the dead people coming at us. I tell him how I took some of them down with my fire arrows, until I fell and thought I was done for. I tell him that's when his uncle came charging gallantly in, mysteriously cloaked and swinging a flaming weapon – a war thurible, Jon explains when I describe it to him.

My retelling seems to entertain Jon. He even laughs at my exchange with Benjen regarding the dead, and how his uncle tried to lure Buttercup down from a tree. His laugh makes me laugh because it's so pure and unexpected, like the affection I received from Ghost. I like how it warms him, so I leave out the part about his uncle revealing a face pale as death with slowly rotting skin, glossing past it to our talk of dragonglass and what the other is doing beyond the Wall. Feeling guilty, I keep it word for word when I can, as if that can make up for what I am withholding.

"I tried to ask him why he wasn't heading south," I add in truthfully. "But he just insisted again that 'the dead cannot pass.' I think he wants to keep holding them back as long as he can."

"Alone?" Jon furrows his eyebrows, his expression filling with doubt again. "Where was it that you saw him? We have to go looking for him."

"He figured you'd say something like that," I say, glancing out at the forest in the distance. "He seemed to discourage it. I think that's why he sent me here as a messenger to let you know he's still out there. So that you don't have to worry."

"Well, I worry," Jon replies, looking out at the same sight and pursing his lips into a pensive frown.

Guilt needles at me worse than the icy breeze. "I don't know this place very well, but it was a five day's journey that way." I point northwest, towards the patches of forest. "He's a fast rider, though, and he's got that much of a head-start on you. I know what it's like to want to see your family again, but I think if you went after him and tried to bring him back, he'd just give you the same answer."

Jon considers this, then gives a sigh. "Stubbornness is a Stark trait."

"Maybe that's the reason he's still going," I offer. "There's nothing that can really take him down."

Not even death, I think to myself.

This seems to faze Jon at first, but after brief contemplation he looks less than convinced. "It was that same stubbornness that got my father and brother killed."

That's right, nearly his entire family has been wiped out. These Starks don't seem to know the meaning of the words stay alive. "What happened to them?" I ask quietly.

Maybe too quietly. Jon's still gazing out beyond the Wall, and I almost think the scream of the wind drowned out my words, until he breaks the silence.

"My father, Ned Stark, rode south to be Hand of the King when Stannis' brother Robert was king," he says. "After Robert died, Queen Cersei arrested him for treason and labeled him a traitor. He'd learned that all her children were bastards born of incest and had attempted to put Stannis on the throne instead of her son Joffrey. He was loyal to Robert, his best friend, and for that, Joffrey took his head."

I lean back against the snow, because this is a lot. Conspiracy, incest, executions… it's like hearing Finnick's collected secrets from the Capitol all over again.

"And your brother?" I prompt, burdened by curiosity and the underlying feeling that it gets worse.

"When he heard that our father had been arrested, Robb united the Stark bannermen and marched them south to war," Jon says. I think he's clued in on the fact that I know nothing about Westeros or its history and has started to explain things with that in mind, and I'm grateful for this. "He formed an alliance with House Frey, and at the price of a marriage contract with one of Lord Walder Frey's daughters, he was allowed to cross the river at the Twins and continue south with his men. Then he fell in love with another, and married her instead of the Frey girl."

"I assume Walder Frey wasn't too happy about that," I mutter. Though I do sympathize with Robb on the constraints of a strategical engagement.

"Robb tried to appease him by giving the girl his uncle to marry," Jon says. "He and his men came to the Twins to deliver his apology and attend the wedding. The Red Wedding, people are calling it now."

The Red Wedding. That doesn't sound ominous or anything... "It was a bloodbath, wasn't it?"

Jon gives an almost imperceptible nod. "The Freys slaughtered them all. His men, his mother, even his wife, and she was pregnant. Then Roose Bolton put a dagger in Robb's heart. His own bannerman had turned on him."

"All of that because he wanted to marry for love," I say, twisting the medallion in my fingers. My stomach twists in turn, thinking of what Snow might've done if I had refused to continue the besotted schoolgirl act with Peeta and chosen Gale instead. Probably District 12 would have been destroyed a lot sooner, with me in it.

"Love is the death of duty," says Jon. I wonder if he's thinking about the girl from the pyre. "Maester Aemon told me that a long time ago. It's why the men of the Night's Watch are supposed to take no wives and father no children. Because—"

"It's the things we love most that destroy us," I finish for him, my tone flat and lifeless.

Jon looks at me, really looks at me then, and something other than torchlight flickers in his eyes as grief recognizes grief. His gaze drops to the medallion as I'm grazing the mockingjay imprint with my thumb.

"That necklace seems important to you," he says. "You weren't wearing it earlier." Which sounds like a completely random subject change, except I hear the question he's really asking.

Lifting the chain over my head, I study the gold disk more closely until I find the catch that swings the locket open. "It's not every day I get to go on top of the world and see a view like this," I say. "The kind of view you want to see with the people you love. Wearing it felt like bringing them with me."

I hand it to him and he takes it carefully in his palm, holding it under the light. His brows furrow again in thought; he's never seen photographs before, but probably he thinks they're exquisitely painted portraits or something and is baffled by the detail.

"Your family?" he asks, and I nod. "They're all light of hair. You must favor your father."

Leaning forward, I lightly tap the picture on the right. "My mother. My sister, Prim..." My throat threatens to close up on me as I move my finger to the left, so I finish in nearly a whisper, "And Peeta."

"Peeta," Jon repeats, looking up at me. He recognizes the name, or at least the sound of it screamed through the walls of Castle Black. "Your brother?" he adds, though he sounds doubtful.

"My..." I falter. What is he to me? What was he, at the point before his death? I hear his voice from that first night he joined 451. Friend. Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancée. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally. "I guess technically he was still my fiancé."

"Fiancé?" The word is foreign to him.

I try to think of a more old-fashioned term. "Betrothed. The person you're promised to marry."

"What happened to him?" Jon wants to know, handing the medallion back. It's his turn to ask the questions.

"Westeros isn't the only world with monsters," I say, closing it with a snap. "Less than a year ago, Panem was in the middle of its own war. We were trying to end the Hunger Games, and free the districts from the rule of the Capitol once and for all. But they bred these creatures called muttations – or mutts – that they used as weapons against us. Peeta and I, and the surviving members of our team, we'd gone into the sewers, the tunnels underground, on a mission to assassinate Snow – President Coriolanus Snow," I clarify, stopping when Jon blinks in surprise.

"President Snow, is that a title?" he asks. "Was he like a king?"

"Yeah, I mean, he might as well have been," I answer. "He had all the wealth and the power."

"And the districts were the kingdoms."

"Maybe. But his real kingdom was the Capitol, and he was hellbent on protecting it," I say. "We were in the sewers when he unleashed these... human-sized lizard-like mutts on us." I can still hear their hiss on the air, imagine them skittering across the ice and snow as they search down each corridor. "Peeta had been his hostage in the Capitol for a while until we'd rescued him. I say 'rescue,' but Snow let him go on purpose. He'd been hijacked – had his memories manipulated through torture – so his mind kept coming and going. He said it was like sleepwalking. He was meant to kill me. He'd already tried twice. But when the mutts had almost overpowered us, he had a moment of clarity, a moment where he was himself again."

I gaze down at the medallion, remembering that moment on the beach when he gave it to me. When he last showed the most of his true self and warned me what he was willing to give up so that people he cared about could go back to the families that needed them. No one really needs me, he'd said.

I wonder if that was one of the last clear thoughts running through his head, the last memory that made him do something so wholly and purely Peeta.

I do, I'd said. I need you.

I wonder if he forgot that part.

"He could've escaped, but he jumped back down for us. Knocked one of them off of me, ripped another off our friend Finnick. I tried to help, but he told us both to go, just go." My quiet monotone doesn't give any life to the real and desperate shouts of Past Peeta, which I can still hear echoing through the sewers. "That was Peeta. He always had to be the self-sacrificing one. He made Finnick practically chase me up the ladder. When I looked down, I saw his eyes. I saw the real Peeta staring back at me. Right before one of the mutts bit into his neck."

Throughout all this I've shifted my attention from the medallion to the view beyond the Wall, somewhat afraid that if I look at Jon, his gray eyes will turn into the blue ones that haunt my sleep. Even so, I can feel them trained on me, and with such intensity that it makes me feel vulnerable.

Too vulnerable. Why have I told him all of this? I never even shared this much with Dr. Aurelius. Most of our conversations came back to Prim, because she had always been Prim, the only one I could admit with certainty that I loved. But sitting here on top of the Wall, it almost feels like being with Peeta again, having our talks on the roof of the Training Center.

"It's a cruel thing," Jon says, breaking the silence. "To watch it happen right in front of you. To be looking into the eyes of the person you love, the moment the light leaves them."

The pain in his voice makes me glance up involuntarily. Now he's staring out toward the forest, in the direction of last night's pyre.

"Who was she?" I ask, and he looks over at me. "You've mentioned the Night's Watch's rule about love to me twice now. And I noticed you tried to put some distance between us earlier. But I don't think that was the real reason. Thorne said something about a wildling girl you couldn't protect."

Briefly he looks caught, but after a mournful pause, he turns his focus back to the north. "Her name was Ygritte," he responds. "She… she was a spearwife, and part of Mance Rayder's army."

"The one that attacked Castle Black the other night?" I ask.

Jon barely nods. "I was with them for a while. Pledged myself to them, pretending to be a Night's Watch deserter, learning their ways and figuring out what they had planned. But Ygritte knew what I was. That I'd never stopped being loyal to my brothers. That didn't stop her from putting three arrows in me when I left."

My eyebrows shoot up at this, and I have to quickly stifle a shocked laugh. "I'm sorry," I say around my palm. "I wasn't expecting that."

"She did warn me to never betray her," Jon says in her defense. He almost sounds fond, wistful, as if those arrows were simply her way of giving three last painful kisses farewell. "When we saw each other again at the battle of Castle Black, she tried to get in one more. But when we looked at each other, she hesitated… and that's when an arrow went through her back."

Immediately I feel awful for laughing. My heart leaps to my throat as I picture it. The redheaded girl, her bowstring pulled back but her arm trembling. A gasp cut short as the arrow pierces her heart. Did he leave her there, or did he run to her? Even with the battle raging on around them, I picture him holding her in his arms as she died, just as I did for Rue. Just as I never got to hold Peeta. A thought that still leaves an empty, aching feeling in my chest months later.

That battle was two days ago. I can barely wrap my mind around this. As I slept in my tree, seeing Peeta die in my dreams for the two-hundredth time, the girl Jon loved was dying for real. I've slept through her death and unwittingly attended her funeral. It feels like walking past someone important and not even realizing it. Like seeing Gale that day in the Justice Building, receiving his medal of valor for his dead father, and not knowing that one day our fates would be more deeply entwined.

"That must've been hard," I realize suddenly, still thinking of Gale. "Knowing it came from someone on your side."

Another drawn out pause. "She was a wildling," he says at last. "The wildlings and the Night's Watch have always been enemies. It was ill-fated from the start."

"The very definition of star-crossed lovers," I mutter, wrapping the medallion chain around my fingers. "They make it sound so romantic. All those stories about two people who should hate each other, getting caught up in a love for the ages. And then you remember what star-crossed usually means. That someone has to die in the end."

I just wanted it to be me. During the Quarter Quell. In the sewers. At Snow's execution, after Prim and Peeta were already gone and maybe I could use the nightlock pill to join them. But Finnick couldn't even let me have that.

"Maybe the Night's Watch has the right idea," I continue. "Never marrying or having kids. I don't want to go through another tragic romance. I don't want to love anyone else. Not if I can't protect them. I'm tired of losing people." I glance over at him, then, and crack a wry grin. "And you don't have to worry about me getting too close to you. I could never marry a Snow. Not because you're a bastard, but because the day I do is the day President Snow rises from the grave just to die laughing at me again."

Jon chuckles weakly. "I understand," he says. "In fact, your name is too similar to my father's wife. Lady Catelyn. She did hate me because I was a bastard."

"That's not your fault," I scoff, and roll my eyes for his sake. "You never even knew your mother, it's not like you could apologize for her."

He concedes this with a slight nod. "What about your mother?"

"What about her?" I ask, and he lifts his eyebrows at me meaningfully. "She's alive, back in Panem. Working at a hospital in District Four." Does Westeros have hospitals? Probably not, going by Jon's blank look. "As a healer," I clarify.

He's still not satisfied. "Where is Panem?"

Shrugging, I give him an honest answer. "Worlds away."

"Then why did you leave?" Jon presses. "President Snow is dead. Isn't the war over?"

"Yes," I reply, avoiding his question. "No more Snow, no more Coin, no more Hunger Games. We have President Paylor now, who actually knows what she's doing, and abolished the Games instead of doing another one with the Capitol's children."

"Wait, so they were actual games, not Panem's way of referring to starvation," Jon observes, frowning.

Unraveling the medallion from my fingers, I look down at the mockingjay again. He doesn't know what he's asking me. I wrap the chain around my fingers again, mindlessly trying to cut off circulation through my gloves. "They were a punishment, for the First Rebellion," I say. "After the uprising failed, and the Capitol defeated twelve of the districts and seemingly wiped out the thirteenth, they created the Treaty of Treason to instill new laws in the name of peace."

I pause, allowing him to catch my dry emphasis on the word.

"Every year, each of the twelve remaining districts were forced to provide a boy and a girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen to be tributes in that year's Hunger Games. Twenty-four tributes in all," I continue. "They were taken to the Capitol for training, then imprisoned in an arena, where over the course of a few weeks, they were expected to fight to the death. The last tribute standing was the victor."

As I'm explaining, Jon visibly grows more and more disturbed. "That's vile," he breathes out, brows knitting tightly together. "They're children! And they were just offered up like animals for slaughter?"

"They'd get chosen at the reaping, where the names were drawn randomly from two separate bowls. One for the girls, one for the boys," I tell him. "The older you got, the more times your name went into the bowl. And from age twelve to eighteen, you could apply for tesserae, which got you a year's supply of grain and oil for one person, but each time you applied got your name put in another time. It added up over the years." Untying my fingers, I open the medallion again to look at the pictures. "I was trying to feed my mom and sister, so when I was sixteen, my name was in there twenty times. Gale, eighteen, with his mother and three siblings, his name was in there forty-two times. And that year, Prim turned twelve, so her name was in there once. Just once."

At the drop in my voice, understanding crests over Jon's face. "But her name was drawn."

"Yes," I say softly. For some reason, I don't want to say more. Yes, I've told him about Peeta. About the Hunger Games. About Snow. But if I tell him how I volunteered for my sister, I'll have to tell him how I went into the Games myself. How I'm still here and still standing because I'm a victor, because I killed people. How I went back into the Games the year after that and killed again, only to be personally rescued from the arena by an undead District 13. And then just like that, I'm the Mockingjay, the face of the rebellion, the one everyone dies for. And that's exactly what I came here to get away from.

"I'm sorry," Jon says, and looks sad. Probably thinking of his own siblings, however young they are.

"The Capitol would expect you to be honored," I intone, shrugging. "They made us act like it was a cause for celebration. A sporting event pitting the districts against each other, people placing bets on who would win. The winning tribute would get to go home and live a life of ease and luxury, and for a whole year the Capitol would give that district gifts of food, while the rest of us went on starving." I add, mimicking Mayor Undersee's droning voice, "'It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks.'"

Jon shakes his head. "Where is the honor in forcing children to kill each other for entertainment?" he asks. "War is one thing. We all have to be able to defend ourselves. That's why I'm training Olly after what the wildlings did to his village." Olly. The boy who's been trailing after Jon, and stood next to him during Mance's execution. He's looked at me suspiciously a couple of times, especially after Thorne started calling me a wildling, but he really is just a kid, and after hearing what happened, I feel bad for him. "And I had a sword made for my sister Arya before I left to take the black, but I hoped she'd never have to use it. When I think of her and Sansa being old enough, or even Bran…" His frown deepens at the mention of his little brother.

"Tell me about them," I urge. Anything to get both our minds off the Games.

So he does. He tells me about all the Starks of Winterfell. Robb, before he became King in the North, who was strong and good at hunting and apparently the girls all found him irresistible (he ends up sounding to me like a Gale with red hair). Sansa, who loves songs and stories about brave knights and princes, though her own Prince Joffrey did not turn out to be as noble as she expected (he tells me she had a direwolf named Lady, and I tell him Prim named her goat the same). Arya, the wild girl, who's also a good shot with an arrow (he tells me a funny story about how she one-upped their brother Bran at target practice after he kept hitting trees and startling birds) and named her sword Needle because it's skinny like her. He says I resemble her a bit; she's the only one besides him who inherited the Stark look, dark hair and gray eyes.

Then there's Bran, who was always climbing, up until the day he fell from a tower and lost the use of his legs. And youngest was Rickon, who was still pretty young when Jon left for Castle Black. Always clinging to his mother or his direwolf Shaggydog for dear life. Jon does have some cute stories about him, and in turn I tell him about Prim and her little ducktail, and her own love of Buttercup, and her compassion that made her a born healer like our mother.

He tells me that for a long time, it was believed that Bran and Rickon were both dead. The story was that his father's ward, Theon Greyjoy, had taken over Winterfell and burnt both boys alive when they tried to escape. But not too long ago, Sam had run into Bran travelling with some allies. Rickon was not among them. Sam tried to convince Bran to come to Castle Black, but Bran was insistent that he had to get beyond the Wall.

"You didn't happen to see a boy of that age while you were out there, did you?" Jon asks hopefully. "Tully red hair? Seven-foot-tall companion who only says, 'Hodor'?"

I give a brief apologetic shake of my head. "Just the one Stark, I'm afraid," I say. "But if Benjen's still out there, maybe they all are."

Jon smiles faintly, like he wants to believe it, but it fades along with his hope. "Surviving beyond the Wall is hard to do even for an experienced ranger, and Bran's still just a boy," he replies. "I don't know how you did it on your own."

"Surviving's what I'm good at," I say, turning the medallion in my hand. "At this point, I don't think I could die if I wanted to."

Jon meets my eyes, his own full of sorrow and sympathy. "Your sister," he says. "What was it that killed her?"

I drop my gaze to her photo. Prim laughs up at me, innocent and untouched by war.

"Bombs." I barely get the word out. Jon doesn't seem to register it, so I find more. "There was an explosion. Some kids got hurt. Being Prim, she went to help them. And then there was one more. I saw her burn to death right in front of me."

Jon stares in horror. He knows what – or who – we're both thinking of right now.

"Thank you," I say. "For shooting Mance. It was hard to watch."

A nod from Jon. "It was only right," he says after a moment, his voice little more than a hushed rasp.

We watch the skies for a while longer, until a fresh wave of exhaustion threatens to overtake us both. Then Edd lowers us back down in the cage and we make for our rooms, hoping to claim those precious final hours of sleep before dawn. Buttercup allows me to scoot him from the middle of the bed after only one irritable paw swat, and curls up next to me, as if graciously forgiving me for my absence.

The rest of the night is dreamless.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

I'm so distracted by my rage towards Melisandre that I almost pass Jon and Sam completely without realizing it. Sam's turned to face Jon, but he must've noticed me out of the corner of his eye because he calls out to me.

"Oh! Katniss!" he says. I stop abruptly, whirling so fast that my braid nearly gets me in the face like a whip. He and Jon are standing by the staircase to the dining hall, waiting to go in. "How did it go with the Red Woman? You aren't in any trouble, are you?"

Jon's usual brooding expression intensifies at Sam's question, silently adding to it himself. In answer, I give a shrug and a sigh.

"Not really. She just made a bunch of cryptic comments and talked about my sigil. And my homelife in Panem," I say. Sam nods, probably having heard Melisandre call me the Mockingjay in front of everyone, and I look to Jon. "Honestly, I'd much rather hear how it went with Stannis."

"Jon was just telling me about it!" Sam says. "He – oh." He stops and looks at Jon expectantly, letting him be the one to share.

Going by Sam's upbeat energy, it can't have gone too badly. "He didn't bring the hammer down too hard?" I ask.

Jon pauses, regarding me for a moment. "He offered to make me a Stark."

The words replay three times in my head before I finally make sense of them. When I do, my mouth drops open in half a gasp.

"What?" I breathe out. Sam's eyes have gone wide; apparently Jon hadn't told him that part yet. "He can do that?"

"Kings have the power to legitimize bastards," Sam explains to me with an excited smile, before turning it towards Jon. "What happened, what did he say?"

"He said he doesn't punish bravery, he rewards it," Jon answers, the corners of his mouth curving up as he laughs like he still can't believe it. "After he showed me the message from Lyanna Mormont, I told him northerners are only loyal to their own. He asked me to give him the North. I told him I couldn't because I was a Snow."

His eyes flicker to me; no doubt, the name has added weight after last night.

"'Kneel before me,' he said," Jon continues in a hushed voice, so that only the three of us can hear. "'Lay your sword at my feet. Pledge me your service, and you'll rise again as Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell.'"

"Wow," I say softly. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," he says.

My thoughts begin to race at the idea. Jon Stark is one thing, but Lord of Winterfell sounds pretty damn prestigious. Maybe Stannis isn't all that bad… for someone who had a man burnt at the stake last night.

"Are you two going in or not?" a wizened old man asks, butting in. Sam and Jon glance over and notice the crowd (or sad excuse for a line) on the stairs and around the entrance to the dining hall has thinned. The three of us start to move, but the man snarls, "Not you, girl. Night's Watch only."

"Just need to ask Sam where I can find Gilly," I reply.

Sam directs me to her before he and Jon climb the steps, and I wander off in search of her. I'd agreed to meet up with her later anyway to help with chores and Little Sam and keep her company while the election is taking place. As I walk, the name Jon Stark trails after me like a persistent tracker jacker. As do my words from last night.

Jon Snow. The name I've known him as for one whole day. I could never marry a Snow.

Well, I think to myself, so much for that.

It's not as if it's the only reason. Like I said, I don't want to fall in love again. It doesn't come easy to me. And it's too soon after Peeta and way too soon for him after Ygritte. And then there's the Night's Watch vow. He can never marry or have kids, and I never wanted to, which works out perfectly. It's just kind of funny that something like this happens mere hours after I said that.

I'm happy for him, anyway. I get the impression that the surname Snow has been a real source of shame for him. Ironically, it sounds almost decent with his first name. Jon Snow. Like one word. Jon Snow. Jon Stark. I find myself mouthing both versions along the way, comparing their sounds and the feel of them on my tongue.

With Coriolanus Snow, the "s" in his first name carrying to the "s" in "Snow" sounds, rather fittingly, like the hiss of a snake. "Jon Snow" is a bit more musical, simple, even pleasant.

Still wouldn't want it as my last name, though. In my world or this one. Thorne's less than endearing nickname for Jon, Lord Snow – he says it with the exact same vitriol that Gale would. Lord Stark, on the other hand...

Ugh, Thorne. I hope he doesn't win the election. That would be bad for all of us. I imagine Thread as Panem's president and give a dismal shudder. But the thought of Panem reminds me to turn off my camera to conserve power.

I locate Gilly and Little Sam and convince her to move her work outdoors. It's chilly, yes, but there's fresh air and all the men are in the dining hall, so outside is free rein for us. We sit at a little table in the east courtyard, far enough away from the hall so that Little Sam and the Night's Watch men won't be disturbed by each other's cries, but close enough that I could sneak up and eavesdrop if I wanted to. And I do want to, but for now I'm tending to Little Sam while Gilly's hands are busy.

Little Sam's not much of a handful. He smiles at me and grabs curiously at my braid, but doesn't tug too hard, and doesn't wail in protest when I get it free. My fingers, and his own toes, are suitable substitutes.

"He likes you," Gilly replies with a smile when I point this out to her. "You're good with children."

Am I? It's never really occurred to me. Up until this year, my interactions with little kids have been influenced by the knowledge that they've only got a few peaceful years left. Or, at least, a few years until hunger isn't their only worry.

"My friends Finnick and Annie just had a baby a couple of months ago. I got to see him before I left, so I've had some recent experience," I say, then give Little Sam a playful tickle. He responds with shining eyes and a merry laugh. "He's very agreeable, I'll give him that."

Just like his…

A thought hits me, and I turn to Gilly. "Hey – The Night's Watch vow says they can't get married or have children, right?"

Gilly sneaks a look at me out of the corner of her eye. "Right," she says slowly, drawing the word out, then smiles for some reason as she turns her attention back to her work.

"But what about you and Sam?" I ask.

Her secret smile disappears and confusion sets in instead. Her head jerks as a deer's would after I've accidentally stepped on a twig. "What about me and Sam?" she asks, eyes enormous.

Have I said the wrong thing? I press on, "Did you two just have Little Sam before he joined the Night's Watch? Or… I don't know, how did that work out?"

"Sam isn't Little Sam's father," Gilly says, baffled. A sound of surprise has barely passed my lips before she adds, "Craster was."

"Craster?" I repeat. "I thought he was your father."

The look of silence she gives me says it all. These two things are not mutually exclusive.

"Oh," I say stupidly. Then it hits me again, harder, and my eyebrows jump upwards. "Oh!" This is a lot harder than girl talk. What do you say to something like that? "I'm sorry. He did that to his own daughter?"

"He did that to all of us," Gilly says, returning to her sewing. "My sisters and me. He was our husband. He'd marry us and we were supposed to give him more daughters."

I'm disturbed, but I try not to show it too much. Even though Gilly is currently looking everywhere else. "And his sons?" I ask, gazing over at Little Sam.

Gilly's quiet for a moment. "He didn't have any use for sons," she says after a while.

"So, what did he do with them?" I might be pushing it, but morbid curiosity won't let me keep my mouth closed.

"Left them in the woods," says Gilly. "As offerings for the gods."

Healthy, thriving Little Sam babbles and grabs for my braid again, as it sways near his reach. "But not this one," I murmur. It occurs to me that Gilly once had to worry about her own child's odds. The odds of it being a girl, or a boy. The odds of life, or death. Some life, considering what the girls had in store for them.

Gilly nods. "Sam made sure of that," she replies, a tentative smile creeping back to her lips. "He ran to me as soon as the mutiny started, and the three of us escaped in the night. Then, when a White Walker came to take my baby, Sam killed it with dragonglass. It's because of him that I got to keep my son."

"That's why you named him Sam," I say, realizing.

Her smile blossoms as she sneaks a fond glance at her son. "I can only hope he'll grow to be as brave, and as smart, and as kind."

I decide to keep my own smile to myself. Maybe I was wrong about Sam's relation to Little Sam, but I highly doubt that I'm wrong about him and Gilly. When she talks about him, she lights up the way my mother used to when my father came home from a hunt.

We keep working – or she works and I look after Little Sam but help where I can – while listening to the noise coming from the dining hall. Eventually the distorted chatter turns to scattered shouts of approval and the sound of fists and cups banging on tables.

"I wish we could hear what they're saying in there," Gilly says wistfully.

I consider the building for a moment, with its welcoming staircase and open windows. "Who says we can't?" I ask.

Gilly quickly realizes what I'm thinking. "You mean listen in?" she exclaims in a low whisper. "We're not part of the Watch. I don't think they'll take too kindly to it if they catch us spying."

"This concerns us, too," I say. "We're directly affected by the outcome. I think we ought to know what we may or may not be in for."

Her expression grows sullen and dark. "If Ser Alliser wins… he'll send us away," she says, inspecting Sam in his wooden cradle. He's fallen asleep, blissfully unaware of his mother's fears. "I don't know what Little Sam and I will do if that happens."

I falter, softening at the sight of them. "You could come with me," I say. "He'll send me away too, and Westeros is pretty new to me. I can hunt and defend myself and all, but I could probably use an ally that doesn't walk on all fours."

The offer brings a startled but happy grin to Gilly's face, then it fades away bit by bit as she gazes past me to the dining hall. "I can't leave Sam," she says softly.

"Then let's make sure we're getting a commander who says you don't have to," I reply without hesitation.

She looks confused at first, then blushes in understanding and gives the sleeping Sam an affectionate touch. "You go. I'll be the lookout."

I give a small nod. "Don't worry, I'll be discreet," I promise her.

Sneaking up to the dining hall, I pause in front of the wooden staircase and consider my options. Past experiences tell me some of the steps are decidedly creaky. I could take my shoes off and go at a light tread, or I could scamper up the steps when the crowd inside is loudest, or I could try to jump up and pull myself up from the side. All of these options come with a lot of risk. I only have barrels and snow piles to give me any sort of boost.

Still, climbing is what I'm good at, so I move away from the center staircase and survey the height of the wooden walkway. Then, when the men inside get boisterous again, I take off my shoes and test the sturdiness of one of the barrels. It holds my weight, so I'm able to hoist myself up and clamber through the gap in the railing on my stomach. Pulling myself very carefully to my feet, I stay at a crouch and come up against the wall between windows.

Rising slowly, I press my back against the stone and peek in sideways through a window. All clear. I look back to Gilly and hold a finger to my lips. She does the same, some of her anxiety transforming to amusement.

Maester Aemon's familiar croak drifts out the window to me. "…triangular tokens count for Ser Alliser Thorne, the square tokens for Ser Denys Mallister. Each—"

"Maester Aemon!" Sam's voice rings out, earnest but more insistent than I've ever heard it. There's a chorus of chair creaks as presumably the whole room turns to him. My heart races on his behalf; I know exactly what he's about to say.

"Samwell Tarly," Aemon acknowledges him. "Go on."

It's Sam, I mouth to Gilly, gesturing subtly toward the window. I don't know for sure if she can read my lips, but he may have projected his voice enough, because Gilly's face breaks into a beam of intrigued pride.

"Sam the Slayer," comes another voice, bringing with it a ripple of mocking laughter. I frown, trying to attach the voice to a face. "Another wildling lover just like his friend, Jon Snow. How's your lady love, Slayer?" More laughter.

Sam's voice softens but stays steady. "Her name is Gilly," he says. "Brother Slynt knows her quite well. They cowered together in the larder during the battle for the Wall."

Now I'm the one grinning with pride. Sam has turned the laughter back on Slynt. I think I know the name, and it goes with the jowly bald man who follows Thorne around and helps him scowl at Gilly and me.

"Lies!" Slynt calls out in anger, barely heard over the room's jeers.

"A wildling girl, a baby," an encouraged Sam continues, inciting more guffaws, "and Lord Janos. I found him there after the battle was over, in a puddle of his own making."

The resulting laughter is so loud that it easily covers up my own – involuntary breathy snickers that I'm still quick to muffle with my hand. It carries on for a while, and Gilly sends me a questioning look. In return, I give her a thumbs-up. Does that mean the same thing here? He's doing great, I mouth to her.

"Whilst Lord Janos was hiding with the women and children, Jon Snow was leading," says Sam, and I tune back in, because I'm honestly curious about this part. "Ser Alliser fought bravely, it is true, but when he was wounded, it was Jon who saved us. He... took charge of the Wall's defense. He killed the Magnar of the Thenns. He went north to deal with Mance Rayder. Knowing it almost certainly meant his own death."

Silence falls inside the dining hall. Luckily, I'm already holding my breath. Was it him I heard shouting orders that night? The "deal with Mance Rayder" part plays back to me; apparently he's been on a suicide mission of his own. I guess Mance was his own President Snow, loath as I am to compare the two. Then again, I didn't know Mance that well. That makes me feel slightly better about letting Jon be the one to shoot him instead of me.

"Before that," Sam says softly, as I strain to hear him, "he led the mission to avenge Lord Commander Mormont. Mormont himself chose Jon to be his steward. He saw something in Jon, and now we've all seen it too. He may be young, but he's the commander we turned to when the night was darkest."

Throughout his entire speech about Jon, the room's been so still and quiet that I've stayed frozen in place, knowing that the crackle of the fire inside would never drown out an ill-timed creak or bump or sneeze. The whole time, I've been wondering what the silence means. Agreement, or dissent?

Now I get my answer, as the room fills with shouts of approval, applause, and thumping of cups against wood. It may not come from all sides, but the men who agree are vocal, enthusiastic. I'm sending an encouraging smile Gilly's way, when suddenly a familiar lizard mutt hiss makes me flatten against the wall.

"I can't argue with any of that," says Thorne, quieting the room once more. "But who does Jon Snow want to command? The Night's Watch? Or the wildlings? Everyone knows he loved a wildling girl. Spoke with Mance Rayder many times. What would've happened in that tent between those two old friends if Stannis's army hadn't come along? We all saw him put the King Beyond the Wall out of his misery. Do you want to choose a man who has fought the wildlings all his life, or a man who makes love to them?"

I blush, for Jon's sake but also because I think I've heard too much. That's what I get for eavesdropping. Honestly, though… cheap shot.

There's a dead and almost accusatory silence that follows, which doesn't do much for my hopes except sink them. Finally, Maester Aemon breaks it with an announcement: "It is time."

Chairs creak and scrape as the men leave their seats to begin the vote, a clear signal for me to leave my hiding spot. I duck down again and deftly slip through the gap in the railing, lowering myself onto the barrel before jumping down and returning to Gilly.

"What did you hear?" she asks in a low whisper.

I bite at the inside of my lip. "Sam made a really convincing argument for Jon," I say.

For a moment, her face lights up with amazement and pride. Then she studies mine and sees it's not quite at her level of enthusiasm. "But…?" she says knowingly.

I puff out a slow sigh. "But then Thorne brought up Mance and the wildling girl."

Gilly allows herself a few seconds to look dismayed before she gets back to work. "Well," she says quietly, "maybe it will be Ser Denys Mallister."

"Maybe," I agree, and take an armful of cloth.

Even with my alleged "talent" in fashion design, I'm no brilliant seamstress in the making, but I do help Gilly get done faster. Afterward, I carry Little Sam while Gilly delivers the finished products and returns the sewing materials. I figure it should be the other way around, but she thought I might want to hold him, and my reservations weren't strong enough to make me say no. Luckily, I held baby Finan once or twice, so I'm not too rusty, and he stays peaceful and content in my arms as we walk. We've gotten so deep into a conversation about our experiences travelling to the Wall that I barely notice she hasn't had me hand him over to her on our way back.

What I do notice is the triumphant cheer that rises from the dining hall just as we're passing in front of it, followed by applause so thunderous it could make the stone walls burst. Gilly and I come to a halt, watching the building as if banners will drop down and unfurl with the victor's face on it. Is it possible that people like Thorne that much...?

And then the roars become a name, indecipherable at first above the clapping and cup-slamming, but soon chanted over and over: "JON SNOW! JON SNOW! JON SNOW!"

Gilly and I look at each other in disbelief, dropped jaws battling the huge grins on our faces. "Well, that sounds promising," I say, my cheekbones aching from glee.

Jon and Sam finally emerge from the dining hall a few minutes later, many of the brothers behind them still cheering and chanting and clapping Jon on the back. They spot us almost immediately. Brightening, probably at the sight of Gilly, Sam leads the charge down the wooden staircase and crosses the courtyard to us. He checks to confirm that Jon has followed before turning back to us and gesturing grandly to him.

"May I present," Sam says, while Gilly gazes at him like she would a true hero, "the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Jon Snow."

Chapter Text

"Congratulations," I say, then briefly glance around and lower my voice. "From Lord Stark to Lord Commander. Big day for you."

"Just Lord Commander," Jon replies. "I told Sam even before the election that I intend to refuse Stannis's offer."

I stare at him uncomprehendingly. "You're going to say no to him?" It takes all my willpower to bite my tongue, but I'm sure the words I want to say are written all over my face. Remember what happened to the last man who did that.

Jon must read facial expressions the way that Sam reads books, because he gives me that same look I caught earlier when I was fleeing Melisandre. Knowing, yet full of caution, and warning me to be the same. But it's Sam who answers for him. "It's part of our vows," he says. "Hold no lands, wear no crowns, win no glory. We honor kings, but we need not obey them."

Of course, it all comes back to the vows. I guess it makes sense, though. It would be pretty hard to be Lord of Winterfell and a three-hundred-mile-long Wall at the same time. And I can't fault him for wanting to keep his word, even if it means he's stuck being a Snow for the rest of his life. Considering that and all the other sacrifices he's committed to make, I just hope that commanding the Night's Watch is worth it.

"Gilly, maybe you'll want to take Little Sam?" Jon says. "I need to talk to Katniss alone about something."

As I hand Little Sam over to his mother, I can't help but recognize the irony here. For once, I root for a Snow to gain power, and his first act as Lord Commander is to reprimand me. I brace myself but follow him for a few yards, glancing over my shoulder to see Sam and Gilly whispering and watching us.

When we're far enough away, he stops and turns to face me. "Speaking of Stannis…"

I wince. "Yeah, I saw that coming…"

"You were seen by some of his men," Jon says. "Some witnessed you leaving the burning moments before I did. Thought I killed Mance because watching him burn was too much for you."

This earns an eyeroll from me. Of course, why would anyone want to end a wildling's suffering? Not because they're a human being or anything. No, because a delicate little lady spectating decides she finds the victim's screams upsetting. The thought irritates me, makes me feel like some Capitol citizen weeping over her very favorite tribute.

"Others said they saw you return with a bow and arrow and attempt to shoot Mance yourself," Jon continues. "They thought we conspired to kill him together."

"That's stupid," I say. "It only takes one arrow, and one person with the guts to fire it."

"Stannis said the same thing." He studies my face, brows furrowed. "It's true, then? You were going to do it."

I shrug, still unsure of that myself. "I don't know. I hesitated, and you beat me to it," I say. "It was my first night here and I didn't want to do anything that might put you in an awkward position. Though, yes, I realize that by not doing anything, I indirectly ended up doing that anyway. The Red Woman already pointed that one out to me."

He shakes his head. "My duty to the Night's Watch protected me from Stannis. It wouldn't have protected you."

"How much trouble am I in?" I ask, remembering Davos's maimed hand.

"Not as much as you would've been," Jon assures me. "But I think he still wants to speak with you."

I give a sigh of resignation, puffing stray windblown hair out of my face. "Well, if he didn't after the song, he'll definitely want to, now." I lift my gaze, which is immediately drawn to the King's Tower. "An audience with the king, huh? So much for keeping a low profile. I was kind of hoping to attract as little attention to myself as possible."

Jon glances around the courtyard before turning his attention back to me. His eyes crinkle with sheepish sympathy. "I get the feeling you would've had trouble with that, regardless."

"How do you figure?" I ask, instantly wanting to conjure up some sort of protective forcefield. What Melisandre sees in me – can he already see it too? The coldness, the impulsiveness, the inability to take orders?

"The Night's Watch has fifty men," Jon says matter-of-factly. "And you're…" he hesitates, probably counting in his head, "one of the only four women here."

While I appreciate that he excluded Shireen, I still make a face at the point he's making. "So?" I complain, wary at the thought of fifty men leering at me day in and day out. "Why don't they just look at… Melisandre or something?"

"They do. But she's terrifying," says Jon.

"And I'm not?" I say, crossing my arms defensively.

Jon does his best to hide a smile. "You have a cat named Buttercup."

"Prim named him that!" I say, and groan in despair. I never should have talked to the little brute in front of him. "Where is that cat, anyway…"

"Probably hunting for mice and rats around the castle," Jon offers. "He'll find no shortage of them here."

"Well, he better pace himself, I—" A sudden growl followed by a hiss cuts me off, and I instinctively jerk my heard toward the source.

My heart jumps into a frenzy at the sight of Buttercup about forty feet away, rearing back and swinging a paw at Ghost, whose curious nose has brought him too close for comfort. The direwolf backs off for a second, then gives a clipped little bark and imitates the paw swing, purposefully missing Buttercup's head. Is he playing with him?! Buttercup doesn't seem to think so. He yowls a bit in warning and emits another hiss.

"Hey!" I yell, snapping my fingers at him. "Tough guy! You're new here – don't pick fights with animals that are bigger than you!"

"Ghost!" Jon calls, motioning with one hand. "To me!"

Ghost obeys but looks back as Buttercup flees in the opposite direction. He tilts his head and makes a deep, confused sort of sound that's like a low whine, before padding over to beg consolatory ear rubs from Jon. Sometimes, I legitimately cannot believe that this animal is real.

"Sorry," Jon says.

"It's okay, I'm sure Buttercup started it." I glance past the dining hall, in the direction of the kitchens. "I'd better go hunt too. Told Hobb I'd bring back something today in time for supper, and maybe Stannis will go easier on me if I'm helping to keep his army fed."

"That's probably a good idea," Jon agrees. "Whatever puts him in a better mood, because you know I'll have to refuse him soon."

I suck in air through my teeth with a sympathetic grimace. "It's a shame I can't go first," I say, and give Ghost a quick affectionate scratch before I head off to fetch my bow and quiver. Then, throwing a look over my shoulder, I add, "Good luck with that, Lord Commander."

He scoffs good-naturedly, but I can tell he enjoys the title a whole lot better than Lord Snow.

Castle Black's main hunting grounds lay beyond the Wall, so they send me out through the north gate again. I'm not worried. Now that Jon's the new Lord Commander, I'm sure I'll be let back in. Though I do wonder when I'll get the chance to travel farther south, I already noticed from our elevator ride up the Wall that there's not nearly as much forest on that side of it as there is on the north. Besides, I've already got a feel for these woods.

But hunting isn't my only reason for venturing out alone again. Once I'm far enough in, obscured by the trees, I reach out to Beetee. It's been a while since I checked in, considering there's not really a good place in Castle Black to appear like I'm talking to myself. I'm not even sure I want to risk it in my room just yet. Hunting, gathering, and fishing trips will be my best bet when it comes to keeping in contact with Panem, and I do want to hear what he thinks so far.

It takes him a few minutes to get back to me, so I set up snares until I hear the click of him connecting to my earpiece. He's pleased to learn that I'm settling in all right, and thanks me for the footage I've gotten so far, fantastically impressed with the view from the top of the Wall and the books in the library that don't exist in our world. They should be a great resource in learning more about Westeros and its history, so he advises me to use them as able. But he's also just as disturbed as I am about the burning from last night, though still intrigued by my encounter with the Red Woman.

"What about Melisandre, do you think she's a threat?" Beetee asks calmly.

"I don't know," I admit, walking as I talk while keeping my voice low so as not to scare off game. "She seems more obsessed than antagonizing."

"She's a very interesting woman," he agrees.

Something about the way he says that makes me roll my eyes. "She knows you're watching. Did you hear that part?" I say, shrugging my quiver more securely onto my shoulder. "Anyway, now that Jon's the Lord Commander, she's probably less likely to try anything."

Upon learning of Jon's election win, Beetee makes a small sound of approval. "In other words, you trust him to keep you safe," he says lightly.

Again with the weird tone. "Well, yeah," I say. "He's a good guy. He just has an unfortunate name."

Beetee chuckles appreciatively. "I ask because I can now pinpoint your general location with the map I've made of the world so far," he explains. "I'm still working on making it a two-way trip, but for now, I believe I may be able to send you things. Parachutes, if you will. Food, weapons, whatever you need. As long as it can fit through the portal."

He wants to test it now, he only needs a reliable landmark or clear location to send it to that I've been to before. Despite my initial dismay, we agree to send it to that creepy tree with the face that's not too far north of here. Less chance of it falling into the water at the lake. Besides, if he releases it into some random spot in the woods, even if it is loud enough for me to hear and track down, that means it's loud enough for others to hear, humans and game alike.

I make my way to the tree, keeping an eye out for animal tracks or signs of life in these woods. Or death, now that I think about it. Just because the dead can't pass through the Wall doesn't mean they won't wander far enough south to try. But save for some promising bird calls, it seems to be all clear. Then I come to the clearing with the tree and look up, searching the skies.

It appears in the air like trails of mist thickening into fog, bringing with it the telltale chime that signals its arrival. A bundle glides down to me, its silver parachute catching on the tree's red leaves to slow its descent. The chime is distinctive in these silent woods, but it sounds like a song. I'll have to hope that anyone who hears it mistakes it for a new kind of bird chirp. I free the parachute from the leaves as carefully as possible, since for some reason harming this particular tree feels irreverent. Maybe it's haunted. You never know with this world.

Inside the bundle are more of Beetee's specialty arrows. The black ones, razor sharp, for hunting, but I notice he has been generous with the yellow incendiary ones. A few of the explosive reds have made it into the bundle as well, although carefully wrapped.

"Just in case," Beetee says.

I add them to my quiver, organizing them with care. "Thank you."

"My pleasure. Just glad to know it works," he responds with ease. "Anything else?"

Yes, there is. The incendiaries have reminded me of my incident with the dead almost a week ago. "Do you know if there are any places in Panem where you can get your hands on some obsidian?" I ask.

"Ah. For the White Walkers," he muses. "If I had to guess, most obsidian deposits would be prevalent in Districts One, Four, and Five. I'll do a little research and see if I can find any that are closer. Maybe I can have some weapons made for you."

"That would be great," I say. "If I'm going to be out beyond the Wall a lot, I don't want to be caught by surprise again."

"Have you seen any more since then?" he asks.

"Well, no, but you can't be too careful." I stuff the parachute and bundle into my game bag, unsure what else to do with them. Maybe the Night's Watch can use the fabric, if they dye it black or something. "I get the feeling that the Wall wouldn't be this big if they weren't that big of a deal. Something tells me I haven't seen the last of them."

Luckily, the rustling I hear next comes from a thick black squirrel, which I easily take down with a regular arrow. Beetee praises my shot, promises he'll get back to me on the obsidian deposits, and leaves me to my hunting. And just like that, I am the only human haunting this forest, living or dead.

A lake in the distance. The Wall like a fence behind me. The only real difference between these woods and the woods back in District 12 is that they are untouched by Gale. I don't know how I feel about that, if it fills me with relief or with sadness.

All I know is that for now, they are mine. And within them, maybe I can come back to myself.

Chapter Text

Now that Jon Snow is the new Lord Commander, my position at Castle Black is a bit more stable.

The Night's Watch brothers have got me singing at dinner, perhaps in honor of the election, but I'm thinking it'll turn into a regular thing. This, I don't really mind too much. When I was considering my victor's talent, post-Games, I ruled out singing purely because I would never let myself be a songbird for the Capitol. These men, on the other hand, are a much better audience. Or at least more tolerable. If I do notice anyone looking spiteful or lecherous, or even feel stage fright making a resurgence, I find someone I trust in the crowd and pretend I'm singing to them. Even if they aren't really there, like Cinna or Prim, Peeta or Rue.

But mostly I have a decent audience. I've already admitted to them that I'm not familiar with any of Westeros's songs, and while some offer to teach me the ones they know, when I sing a couple of my father's favorites, they're more than receptive towards them. Though I've basically given up all hope of lying low by doing this, at least I've got a role carved out.

Haymitch would be losing his mind if he could see me now. I can just hear him shouting, "THIS! This is how you get sponsors!" The thought of his exasperated voice makes me wistful.

But a successful election, cheerful songs, and a good dinner don't keep the nightmares away. Tonight I find myself in the Capitol sewers again, except they're icy cold and more like the inside of the Wall's gate tunnel. The lizard mutt version of Thorne lashes out at Gilly and Gale, rakes his sharp talons across Jon's chest when he tries to protect Peeta, and then he comes skittering and hissing after me. Beady eyes glittering with cold-blooded hatred, Thorne the lizard mutt slams me against the ladder and unhinges his jaw, then lunges for my head.

I wake with a gasp and thankfully not a scream this time. Buttercup stirs as well, before realizing it's just me and lowering his head back down on his paws. Trying to fall back asleep doesn't do me any good. After what feels like twenty minutes of trying, I give up and throw on warm layers, then grab a flashlight and sneak out into the courtyard. It's late enough that anyone still awake must be on top of the Wall, and early enough that no one's already up training, because I make it to the library without anyone bothering me.

Beetee's idea to peruse the Westeros books is a good one, and also not a bad solution to my current sleeping problems. They'll either be so interesting that I forget my nightmares, or so boring that I'll end up dozing off again. I pad over to the shelves and drag my light along the spines until I find a section that looks like mainly Westeros history books. With careful fingers, I pull one off the shelf and bring it to the table.

Should I be recording? I decide not to bother until the end. I can skim each page later and then Beetee will be able to pause the footage as he likes. For now, I sit and read in peace, going back to Westeros's prehistory. I'm at least able to recognize some of the material, thanks to Jon's brief summary in the elevator ride. Like the Children of the Forest, small hunter-gatherers who made arrowheads and daggers out of dragonglass, and apparently are responsible for the creepy faces on certain trees – weirwood trees, which are sacred to the Old Gods that they worshiped.

I make a mental note to not let any more parachutes unsettle the leaves on that one tree. I'm skeptical, but The Children were said to have magic, and after what Melisandre's Lord of Light seems to know about me, I'm not sure I want to call any bluffs.

There's also the First Men, who invaded Westeros and started fighting the Children of the Forest, a war that lasted for centuries. The Children used magic to split Essos from Westeros and keep more of the First Men from coming, but there were already too many of them. Eventually both sides agreed to a truce, referred to as The Pact. Open lands went to the First Men, and the forested areas were claimed by The Children. The Age of Heroes began, the First Men started worshiping the Old Gods, and peace settled. For about two thousand years. Then came the White Walkers, and the generation of darkness called the Long Night.

A lot of this history sounds like it's mixed with legend, but I can't say it's not interesting. I'm so immersed in the Battle for the Dawn and the construction of the Wall that I don't hear the slow footsteps, don't even register the fact that I'm not alone until it's too late.

"Katniss Everdeen!" a voice rasps from the darkness. I look up with a jolt, flicking a beam of light at the intruder with my flashlight. It catches on a pair of pale wide-set eyes and an old face, which only serves to make me jump a second time.

"Maester Aemon," I say, lowering the light in relief as I search for my breath.

"Sorry to sneak up on you, my dear," he says, chains jangling softly as he shuffles toward me. "I didn't expect to find anyone else down here at this hour."

"How did you know it was me?" I can't help but ask.

Aemon smiles at me, feeling for the edge of the table. "You bring the scent of the woods with you," he answers. From behind him comes a pair of footsteps with a heavier tread. Moments later, Sam appears, lit up by the lantern in his hand while he clutches an armful of rolled up maps and parchment to his chest. He looks a lot more surprised to see me. "And because the only other person who would be wasting candles to read in the middle of the night is Samwell Tarly, who has only just now caught up with me."

"She's not using candles, Maester Aemon," Sam is swift to correct, moving around Aemon to get a better look. "She's using… actually, I'm not sure what that is."

"Oh, um…" I awkwardly click the button a couple of times, off and then on again. "Flashlight. Just a kind of light source we have in Panem."

Sam sets down the lantern and a few of the papers on the table, looking curious. "Can I see that?"

Since he's already noticed it, there's no point in being secretive. I hand the flashlight over to him. "Careful, it's bright. Try not to stare directly at it for too long."

"You'd better listen to her, Tarly," says Aemon, tremulously taking a seat. "Those young eyes of yours are still useful to me. I should like for them to remain unharmed."

"What's in this thing? The bloody sun?" Sam mutters in amazement. Wandering off through the aisles, he flicks the beam of light this way and that, letting it dance along the ceiling, the shelves, the floor.

Aemon and I are left with the trembling flame of the lantern as it reaches toward the papers that have unfurled on the table, illuminating a portion of a map with an unsteady orange glow. Winterfell catches most of the light, drawing my focus to it. I quietly activate my camera and lean over, making sure Beetee will get a good glimpse of what I'm looking at. It's Westeros, with the lands beyond the Wall at the very top. To the east is the other continent labelled Essos. I record as closely as I dare, acting as his eyes, my own eyes trailing first over each location in or around Westeros. Bear Island, Winterfell, The Eyrie, Dragonstone…

"So what is it, then, that brings Katniss Everdeen to the library at such an hour? Reading by flashlight?" Aemon asks companionably. "I'm told you visited the top of the Wall around this time last night. I do hope your bed is not uncomfortable."

"No, it's not that," I assure him. "I just get night terrors sometimes. Thought that instead of tossing and turning trying to get back to sleep, I could come down here and do something more useful with my time."

Aemon nods with a little "ah" of comprehension. "A commendable choice," he says. "I've had a few sleepless nights myself as of late. I fear I am not feeling well. 'Stay abed, Maester!' they tell me. 'You need rest,' they say. But the mind is more curious than it is obedient, I've found. Thankfully, so is Tarly's. And so here we are, in the same place at the same time." He smiles in my direction. "What are you reading?"

I check the timeworn front cover. "True History," I say. "I figured that was where I should start. Panem doesn't exactly have information on Westeros, so I don't really know anything about it."

"Nor does Westeros know anything about you," Aemon counters. I think of the Red Woman and silently beg to differ. "Could it be possible that Panem is known here by a different name?"

"Well, it's part of a place that was once called North America," I respond. "But I don't see that name on this map either."

"Another dead end," he agrees. "Doubtless, there are still parts of this world that have yet to be mapped. I suppose you could even fill in those spaces, if you recall what direction you travelled to get here."

"That's where it gets tough," I admit. I've been wondering if I can play this as a sort of amnesia. "One moment I was in Panem, visiting a friend in District Three. Luckily packed and ready to go on an adventure. And then the next, everything's way too bright, and I'm surrounded by ice and snow, somewhere in… here."

My finger hovers in a circle over the lands north of the Wall, until I pinpoint the appropriate distance from Castle Black.

"The Haunted Forest," I say, reading the name of the area aloud in a hollow voice. How very on-the-nose. My thoughts veer to Benjen Stark, but I pull them back and look over at Aemon. "What happened in between is still pretty hazy to me. I didn't know where I was, how I got there, or where I should be going."

Aemon reaches out a quivering hand and touches my wrist. "Well, you're not a ghost," he says decisively, but with good humor. "Or else my hand would've passed right through you."

It's not my own specter I'm spooked by, but I smile regardless. "It's a good thing I ran into Benjen Stark not long after that," I say. "I might've gone farther north and run into more of those White Walkers."

"Is that what's haunting your dreams, my dear?" he asks.

"Only one of them, but…" I falter, splaying my fingers out over the pages of the history book. "Is all of this true? About the Long Night? Children of the Forest, First Men, White Walkers... a winter that lasted for years instead of months?"

Reading it is one thing. Saying it aloud – years – brings a dark, empty feeling to my chest. I could never have made Peeta's bread last that long. And the dandelion I saw that day at school… it would be no more than a dream of spring, probably crushed beneath another wave of snow.

"Most believe it to be no more than a children's story," says Aemon. "Which is why our pleas for the kingdoms to send more men to guard the Wall have largely gone unanswered. But you have seen them yourself. And so have Samwell and Jon."

As if hearing his name, Sam comes back and returns the flashlight to me as one would a knife. I take it and click it off, since a curious mind with an interesting new toy is a bad combination for a battery. "How many of them did you see out there?" Sam asks.

I think back a week, trying to count. "I don't know. About ten?" Twirling the flashlight in my fingers, I look up at him. "Why, how many did you see?"

"Too many to count," Sam says. "Hundreds. Thousands. An entire army and their dead horses, all marching south towards the Wall."

The flashlight falls out of my grip and drops noisily to the hard stone floor. Thousands. Thousands of dead people and their horses coming here, with a seven-hundred-foot Wall in their way. As long as the Wall stands, the dead cannot pass beyond it. But can the Wall withstand it? Apparently they can bring back dead animals as well. I grimace, imagining the mammoth from the other night slamming against the Wall without rest.

"You must be starting to miss Panem right about now," Sam says, with a weak chuckle of sympathy.

I picture the Capitol hovercrafts, which no towering ice wall could stop, soaring over the districts and relentlessly raining firebombs. "Not yet," I say flatly. "Panem had its own horrors." My story alone would be enough to fill the book in front of me.

"A children's story," Aemon repeats. "Filled with the very things that give us all nightmares. But even so, restless minds like ours spent many late nights writing it all down. So that we would remember. So that we would know how to stop them," he pauses for effect, his dry rasp softening to a solemn murmur, "when the real nightmares return."

His words linger with me long after I've said goodnight to them both. The idea he's planted ironically makes it harder to fall asleep. I've brought the pieces with me, like an outline, and my memory – and, I'm sure, countless sleepless hours in my future.

The next morning, at the weirwood tree, I ask Beetee to send pens and paper.

Shireen greets me when I return from my hunt, trailing me like a shadow as I deliver the game and greens to Hobb. She reminds me of Rue in that way, except not quite as inconspicuous.

"What's funny?" she asks when I emerge from the kitchens laughing a little under my breath.

I shake my head, grinning. "It's just that back in District Twelve, I dropped off game at a place called The Hob. And now I'm bringing it to a man named Hobb," I say, shifting my quiver strap securely on my shoulder before glancing aside to her. "Some things never change, you know? Makes Castle Black feel a little more like home."

"I do like it here," Shireen says wistfully as we walk. "But Gilly and I missed you and Sam in the library this morning. Are they going to be sending you out to hunt every day?"

"Lot of men to feed," I say, trying to keep it vague. But we both know her father's army makes up a large portion of that.

Shireen nods in understanding. "Father's speaking with Jon now," she informs me. "He knows we can't stay here forever. I heard him and Ser Davos saying we may have to ride for Winterfell within a fortnight, or else the snows will trap us here indefinitely. He doesn't think even the new Lord Commander's patience or resources will hold out for that long."

Fortnight. I rack my brains for the meaning. I heard it used to describe a handful of past Hunger Games when they ended in two weeks or less.

Two weeks or less until she leaves, with just her parents and their army for company. No wonder she looks so downcast. The thought bums me out as well.

Luckily, Buttercup chooses that time to bound up to us and rub up against our legs, and she brightens considerably. Picking him up, she cuddles him a little, and then holds him out to me. I humor her by giving him an obligatory chin scratch, which he lazily accepts.

She puts him back on the ground and he pads after us as we walk, or probably after her. There's no other reason for him to be following. I still have my bow and arrows and game bag but I don't have any entrails for him. Yet he sticks by us, even when we pause by some stairs and start talking about songs. I've already taught her a few, but here Shireen teaches me one of hers, a simple yet silly song called "It's Always Summer Under the Sea." When I give it a try, Buttercup doesn't even run away yowling.

I'm debating whether or not his shriveled old cat heart can take saying goodbye to another Prim, when she pauses and looks over at my bow.

"Are you very good at that?" she asks. "With the bow."

I pick it up and examine it in my hands, letting her have a closer look as well. "I'm all right," I say.

She thinks for a second, then eyes me hopefully. "Could you show me?" She nods toward the courtyard, where there are some crude straw figures set up as target practice.

"Is it allowed?" I ask. Despite my initial desire to appear as unremarkable as possible, the thought of using Castle Black's training area has tempted me since I got here, but I'm suddenly feeling tentative about firing weapons near a king's daughter.

Shireen seems to know what I'm thinking. "If they say anything, you can tell them the princess asked you to do it," she points out with a smile.

That's good enough for me. Maybe the Night's Watch brothers can say no to a king, but I'm helpless in the face of royalty. Especially a face like that, with eyes like Prim's and a smile like Rue's.

Bow in hand, sheath of black arrows on my shoulder, I position myself in the center of the courtyard, just past the steps that lead up to the elevator. A good place to start. I'm not trying to impress anybody just yet. I take out an arrow, pull on the bow, and easily pierce the straw dummy's heart. Shireen offers a smattering of applause, and I grin back at her, but I'm not done.

I retrieve the arrow, then head past the elevator platform and climb another set of stairs. I've covered accuracy, but what about distance? I share a look with Shireen, who is holding Buttercup and watching with wide-eyed anticipation. Another arrow flies. It skewers the dummy through the chest with a satisfying thunk.

Shireen can't easily clap with Buttercup in her arms, but I hear her gasp in admiration. Making my way back down to the courtyard, I stop directly across from Shireen's staircase and consider how to tackle speed. I draw a deep breath, taking in the five targets across from me. Then I fire arrow after arrow into each of their faceless heads.

Buttercup must've wriggled out of Shireen's arms, because I hear her clapping enthusiastically, begging to see more. Since the courtyard is still ours, and she's a much more captive and appreciative audience than the Gamemakers, I decide to show her some tricks from my first private sessions. Backing up further, I get the two dummies on the left in the heart, then the two on the right. Finally, I do the shoulder-roll, rise on one knee, and hit the one in the center.

There's a gasp cut short, but no applause this time. Confused and a little breathless, I get to my feet, turning to face Shireen. She's still there on her staircase, but she's not alone. Behind her, waiting at the balcony, is Stannis Baratheon.

My heart, only just beginning to settle after the demonstration, races anew. But I already knew this was inevitable. Stannis says something to Shireen, who gets up and hesitantly walks away, but not before giving me a timid wave goodbye. Stannis descends the staircase as well, then gestures for me to approach, and I meet him at the bottom of the steps.

"Katniss Everdeen," he says.

Swallowing hard, I briefly bow my head in greeting. "Your Grace."

"I wonder if I might have a word." It sounds calm and perfectly polite, but it's an order, not a question.

I squint over at the slain straw dummies, then back at him. "Can I go get my arrows first?"

We're in the King's Tower now, with Stannis sitting at his desk and Ser Davos standing to his right. I'm glad it's just Davos and not Melisandre who joined him while I was retrieving my arrows from the targets. I almost forgot my bag on the stairs where I left it with Shireen, but Davos nicely thought to pick it up and bring it along as we walked to the tower together. Now it sits by the door with my bow and quiver, while I stand before the king, devices switched on, awaiting some sort of wrath or judgment.

At last, Stannis breaks the silence. "My daughter likes you," he remarks. "You've made quite an impression on her since the day you arrived."

There's a lull, so I figure I'm supposed to respond. "She's made an impression on me, Your Grace," I tell him. "She has a good heart. Reminds me of my little sister."

"Your sister," Stannis repeats, and for a moment I think he glances at Ser Davos. "What was her name?"

"Prim," I say. It sounds too short and informal for a response to a king, so I amend my answer. "Primrose."

"Did you sing to Primrose too? When she was younger?" Stannis asks. "Lullabies, perhaps."

I nod, mildly suspicious of how innocently conversational these questions sound. "Yes," I say. "She liked the Meadow song best."

"Yes, Shireen mentioned that one," says Stannis. "She loves all of your songs, though she tells me her favorite is the one with the magical river." Then his gaze chills significantly. "Can you guess which of your songs is on my mind right now?"

There it is. "The Hanging Tree, Your Grace?" I suggest, and it's all I can do to ensure that my tone lacks sarcasm.

"The Hanging Tree," Stannis confirms. "Do you know what the men are calling you? The Songbird of Castle Black. It fits well with your sigil, the mockingjay." He says it like it's the most ridiculous word he's ever heard, putting emphasis on the jay part. "Ser Davos tells me it's a bird from your country. As well as a symbol of rebellion."

"Yes, Your Grace," I say, widening my eyes to make myself look earnest. "So is the song."

He looks less than impressed, but I can't help it. The fact that I've already earned myself a new nickname has kind of thrown me off. "And what exactly are you rebelling against?"

"Nothing, anymore," I answer. "I mean, back home it was against torture, starvation, the burning of our districts, and the systematic murder of our children. But here it's just an execution song."

What am I doing? Of all times to not have a filter, the worst is probably when speaking to a king. I think if Effie were in this room right now, I would be giving her a heart attack. Instead, I have Ser Davos, who is watching us like we're both about to knock a vase over and he can't decide which one to catch.

But if Stannis is taken aback by my words, he barely shows it. "Was it just an execution song when you aimed your arrow at Mance Rayder?" he asks coolly. "It wasn't just my men who saw you. So did the wildlings. There's talk of you in their cells. You're not one of them, but some admire you. Heard you sing to their king. Some have been singing it themselves."

I feel the warning signs of a headache coming on. Singing The Hanging Tree was a spur-of-the-moment decision, but so was pulling out those berries in the arena. Why do my actions keep on having these kinds of consequences?

From somewhere deep inside my memory, old words of Peeta echo anew. She has no idea, he says in my head. The effect she can have.

"I'm honestly not looking for that kind of attention, Your Grace," I tell him. "I wasn't the one who shot the arrow that night. All I did was sing a song."

Stannis studies my face for a moment. Maybe he believes me, but he's not satisfied.

"My brother Robert went to war over a girl like you," he says. "I don't suppose Jon Snow has mentioned anything to you about his aunt Lyanna."

"No, but I'm told that I look just like her," I say.

"You have her coloring," Stannis agrees. "And her attitude, mostly. She was a skinny, willful, wild girl. But she was also a great beauty, or else Robert wouldn't have been so obsessed with her for all those years." He says this more to himself, rolling his eyes. "Rhaegar Targaryen thought she was beautiful, too. After winning the tourney at Harrenhal, he chose her as the queen of love and beauty instead of his wife, laying a crown of blue winter roses in her lap. He would later abduct Lyanna, who was Robert's intended, near Harrenhal, and when her brother Brandon called for Rhaegar to answer to his crimes, Rhaegar's father King Aerys had him and his father Lord Rickard Stark executed. This led to the war known as Robert's Rebellion, which lasted close to a year and brought about the deaths of thousands upon thousands of men, women, and children, including Lyanna herself." He gives me a moment to absorb all this, before fixing me with a stern look. "The Hanging Tree isn't just a song any more than that crown of winter roses was just a wreath of flowers."

Part of me wants to defend Lyanna, who shouldn't have a war blamed on her for being desirable. Another part is stuck on the fact that she, too, was presented with roses. Winter roses. Snow. I'm reminded of his visit before the Victory Tour and I know that Stannis is right.

"A spark can grow into an inferno," I mutter.

"Exactly," says Stannis. "The Lady Melisandre says you aren't a threat. I'd like to believe her, but there are things she sees and things she doesn't see. For instance, she didn't see the way you were shooting out there. Are you preparing for war, Lady Everdeen?"

"No, Your Grace," I say immediately. "I've had my fair share of war already. I'm not trying to start another one."

"Good," he says. "I'm trying to end one."

Suddenly, there's a commotion outside, so Stannis dismisses me and excuses himself to follow the noise. I'm tempted to follow him, but then I think better of it and turn to Ser Davos. "Just what is the Red Woman telling him about me?" I ask.

"Not much," he replies swiftly. "But after you arrived, she spent an absurd amount of time consulting with her Lord of Light. And by that, I mean staring at her visions in the flames." At this, he makes a face while I scoff. "She saw you from atop the Wall and looked pleased to see you. When I asked how she knew you, she only said that the Lord's light touches all worlds, and all worlds touch him." He raises his eyebrows at me. "Does that mean anything to you, milady? Because it certainly doesn't to me."

"It just sounds like more of her usual cryptic messages to make herself sound ominous," I say, trying to appear unimpressed. But now I am trying to make sense of it, trying to think like Beetee. Is she saying that light is universal? Or, in this case, multiversal? Light, lightyears, speed of light, there's probably some sort of scientific connection here. Maybe Beetee had to figure it out in order to accomplish multidimensional travel. And when he did, when I did, we opened the door for Melisandre's Lord of Light to shine through. If he wasn't there already.

"Well, the last time the Red Woman took an interest in someone your age, it wasn't good," Davos says, breaking me out of the thoughts that will almost guarantee a headache. "I don't suppose you have any king's blood in you."

"Not that I'm aware of," I answer. "We don't really do the kings and queens thing in Panem. The people elect a president, so blood doesn't matter. And even if it did, my father was a coal miner, and my mother came from the merchant sector. A bit higher up in class, but still not royalty." While going to pick up my things, I give Davos a look. "She apparently already knows this."

He seems relieved to hear it, although still just as confused as I am. "Then I'm afraid I'm at a loss," he says. "If you're not a threat, and you're not of royal blood, the only thing I can think of is that she believes you have a part to play in the wars to come."

"I'll bet King Stannis loves that," I say dryly, sliding my quiver onto my shoulder.

"He doesn't terribly mislike you," Davos assures me. "You're good to Shireen and he sees that. Mainly he just means to warn you. Though to tell you the truth... perhaps I shouldn't be saying this, but I think he's more disappointed that you didn't inspire a man to go to war."

"How do you mean?" I ask, turning more fully to face him while I adjust my game bag on my arm.

"Well, as you might be aware, His Grace recently offered a lordship to Jon Snow," he says. "Offered to make him a Stark, in exchange for pledging his service and giving him the North. I believe he expected that you would be enough of an incentive for Jon to say yes."

"Me?" I say, dumbfounded. "Why me?"

Davos shrugs. "He's seen the way he looks at you," he answers, as if it's obvious. "And a Night's Watch brother cannot marry. The Lord of Winterfell can."

Unbelievable. I haven't been in this world two weeks and I'm already being married off. "I'm not exactly the marrying type, Ser Davos," I tell him. "Besides, Jon and I just met! And we both lost someone recently. The girl he loved died days ago, so I really don't think he's looking at me or any girl in any special way right now. If he is, it's because of the Benjen thing. Or the stunt with Mance."

"Well, that may be," Davos concedes, though he doesn't look entirely convinced. "But sometimes the promise or mere idea of a future is enough hope to spur a man on. To not only avenge his family but to start a new one."

There's something hidden in his tone that makes me linger over his words. A subtle mournfulness, a melancholy yearning that reminds me of my own buried sadness. Snow and Coin are dead, so I guess I've avenged the people I love, but is that enough? Will it ever be enough to make me feel safe? To give me the security that, if I actually wanted to have children one day, I could do so without fearing for their very lives? Or will I be dreaming five, ten, twenty years into the future about their names being picked in the reaping, even here in a world where the Hunger Games never took place?

The thought catches me by surprise. I wonder if I'll be staying in this world for that long…

"Not that it matters," says Ser Davos, drawing me back to the present by clearing his throat. "I imagine his Night's Watch brothers are his family now."

I'm about to agree with him when we both hear a shout from the courtyard. A pleading cry for mercy, quivering with panic. "What is going on out there?" I ask, striding out the door in the same direction that Stannis went. From the sound of quick footsteps following after me, Davos is just as anxious to find out.

We emerge from the tower together, finding a crowd gathered outside at the platform in front of the elevator. Above them, on the stairs, they have someone bent over a chopping block.

I recognize the bald head of Janos Slynt only seconds before Jon Snow brings the sword down and removes it from his neck.

Chapter Text

A couple of days pass uneventfully. Hunting, gathering, chores with Gilly. Helping Sam in the library with scrolls while Shireen and Gilly continue their lessons. Some singing now and then. I'm no longer dreading a run-in with Stannis, so that's a load off my shoulders. Mostly we stay out of each other's way, save for when we both share a presence with Shireen, which hasn't happened a lot. More often, it's Ser Davos who acknowledges me with a nod or a few polite words as he checks up on her or escorts her to her parents.

He fondly calls her Princess, as she calls him Onion Knight. If I didn't know better, I'd mistake them for father and daughter. Except her dark hair and blue eyes are so unmistakably Stannis.

I'm getting used to the layout of Castle Black, so after I finish feeding the ravens one morning, I slink through a passage, up some stairs, and across a walkway while avoiding the courtyard entirely. A good thing, too, because it's currently packed with armed men swinging swords at each other. The roof also shields me from a steady snow that's been flurrying since I woke up. Shivering, I tighten my coat around me and bury half my face in my scarf, longing for the warm summer temperatures I left behind in Panem.

I find Shireen in her usual spot – on the stairs leading up to the dining hall, watching the men train. I guess there's not much else for a kid to do here, but she seems perfectly content where she is. Enraptured, even. I greet her with a smile and she returns it, patting the steps in an invitation to join her.

"What are you watching?" I ask, obligingly taking a seat at the top of the stairs. Then, after a glance through the gap in the railing, I shift my knowing eyes to her. "Or should I say, who are you watching?"

Shireen blushes into her lap, hiding a smile. "Jon Snow," she admits quietly. The way she says his name, she somehow manages to make it sound beautiful, like it could belong to no one other than the most dashing prince who ever lived. "He's very handsome, isn't he? And a good fighter."

"He is," I say, appreciating the plausible deniability. I could be just agreeing to the "good fighter" part. There's no denying that he's skilled in combat. I knew from Sam's speech that Jon knows how to fight, but hearsay is different from witnessing it for yourself.

He strides up to one of the brothers he's training, taking a sword from him and turning to face two of the men as he twirls the blade in his hands, getting a good grip on it. Circling his opponent, he swings a hit that the other man barely blocks, then immediately parries his counterattack, before knocking the sword away with a flick of his arm. He fights like a Career, like he's been doing this all his life.

Finnick's voice creeps back into my ear. "Such a young man when he rose to power. Such a clever one to keep it."

I want to shoo the words away like an annoying cloud of gnats. The fact that I still make the association between the two irritates me to no end. I thought I'd done away with it after the talk on the Wall and the election, but the beheading of Janos Slynt threw me off. There were so many reasons why it shouldn't have, and so many more after I asked Sam about it and learned what crimes brought Slynt to the Night's Watch. Still, the image of Jon's face twisting into a grimace of fury as he slammed his sword down and the blade sliced through Slynt's neck is not one that I'll soon forget. Compared to that, the sight of the stump spurting out blood wasn't nearly as shocking.

It forced me to look at him differently. And ever since, I've been wondering, what kind of leader will Jon Snow turn out to be?

Nothing like President Snow, I've been telling myself, and continue to tell myself as I watch him. Snow never did the executing himself, and the murders he pulled off were sneaky and indirect, by way of poison. With my weapon of choice being a bow, my own kills have so often been from a distance.

It's different with a sword, I realize, following Jon's movements as he ducks and thrusts and dodges. He has to get in close, look them in the eyes, hear their last gasps before he strikes the killing blow. There's no distancing himself from it. With him, it's always personal.

Stopping for a break, Jon takes a moment to massage his hands and readjust his gloves, before casting an idle glance in our direction. His eyes find mine, and he looks surprised to find me staring. Which I guess is fair, because the last time he saw me looking at him for more than three seconds was probably at Slynt's beheading. I've sort of avoided lingering eye contact since then, while I tried to figure out how I felt about it.

Now, even though I'm mildly embarrassed to be caught, I don't avert my eyes this time. In fact, I make myself more comfortable on the stairs and give him a little eyebrow raise and slight gesture like, oh, don't mind us, carry on. Anyway, it's not like Shireen and I are the only ones spectating. Stannis and Selyse are at the foot of another staircase nearby, though I can feel the latter's watchful gaze shifting to me. Or to her daughter, which infuriates me and makes me want to block her from view because it doesn't feel warm or motherly.

When Jon looks away, I allow myself to do the same, switching my daring staredown to Selyse. She's saying something to Stannis, but her eyes carry the frown for her, and for a few seconds we're locked in a battle of mutual disapproval. I feel briefly triumphant when she's the first to break it, despite part of it having to do with the fact that Melisandre is coming down the steps to join them.

"Katniss?" Shireen asks, pulling my attention back to her. Round, curious eyes train on me. "If Jon wasn't part of the Night's Watch, would you marry him?"

The question catches me off-guard. My first instinct is to bristle, to wonder if Stannis has actually recruited his daughter to bring this up with me. But then I collect myself with a little smile.

"What, and steal him away from you?" I ask, trying to look and sound as scandalized as possible. This makes her giggle. "Nah, go on, you marry him. Make him a prince and whisk him away from this place. Your dad likes him, after all."

Shireen smiles briefly. "I don't think he wants to be a prince. I think he'd rather be with you. You're beautiful. And I..." She trails off, smile fading the way it does when she thinks of her greyscale. "Well, Mother says the scars will make it difficult to find a good match for me."

I want to glare at Selyse again, but she's gone. Instead, I lean in towards Shireen and drop my voice to a low whisper. "Can I let you in on a secret?" I ask. She gives an eager nod, leaning forward as well. "I have scars, too."

"Where?" Shireen whispers back. "Can I see them?"

"If you think you can handle it," I say.

Shireen gives another nod. "I can handle it," she says decisively, so I roll up my sleeves and show her my arms.

The doctors may have worked their magic in the Capitol hospital, but that can only go so far, and my struggles after the execution did their damage. The doctors did warn that the scarring would peak after the six-month mark. Now, after nine months or so, my arms are a patchwork of pink, different shades in different places, swirling on my skin like the paints Peeta and the morphlings used to decorate me before the Quell. Not so irritated but still tender to the touch, though I don't flinch when Shireen gasps and takes my arm in both hands to examine it.

"What happened?" she asks, lifting her gaze to me. Wide-eyed and full of fascination.

"An explosion," I say. "I got caught up in a big fire. Burned me pretty bad. Look, it doesn't stop at my arms." With my free hand, I pull down my scarf, move my hair, and reveal the shiny pink parts of my neck.

Shireen stares, transfixed. "Does it hurt?"

"A little," I tell her. "Not so much anymore. It's been almost a year, and I have some ointment to put on it that helps."

"You must have incredibly skilled maesters where you're from, if they were able to save you after a burn like that," she says.

"We call them doctors and nurses in Panem," I say. "My mother's one of them. She had to get skilled at treating burns, since most people from my district used to work in the coal mines and there tended to be a lot of accidents. Luckily the mines are closed now, so District 12 has switched to making medicine instead."

Shireen is hanging onto my every word. "Do you think they could make a cure for greyscale?" she asks.

I shrug. "I don't know. We don't really have it in Panem," I admit. "You're cured anyway, aren't you?"

She lowers her eyes. "Yes, but..." she says, grazing at the spot on her cheek.

"They could do what they did with me, and cover up the area with new skin," I go on. Shireen looks amazed at the idea. "But only if you wanted to. The thing is, in Panem, there are people who would get tattoos and decorate their face with all sorts of colors and designs and textures... If they saw a princess with greyscale on her face, they'd probably think it was beautiful. They'd want to look just like you."

"They would?" Shireen asks, doubtful but daring to wonder.

I nod, reminded of Octavia's green skin, of Venia's gold tattoos above her eyebrows, of Tigris's stripes and whiskers. "Yes, it's unique. Something they've never seen before. People in the Capitol, they loved that kind of stuff. New styles and fashion trends. They were always changing themselves to look more interesting," I tell her, and touch the side of my head. "My friend Cressida had half of her head shaved here, with tattoos of these long green vines that ran all the way down her neck and shoulder."

Shireen smiles anew. "Those sound pretty," she allows, but her expression still wavers. Vines are not the same as scales and stone.

Undeterred, I try again. "Scars are just proof that you've survived something," I say. "In your case, something that most people don't."

Then I feel bad, because that's easy for me to say since I can hide mine. Still, that means when people do see them, it's more of a surprise. I figure most people are used to Shireen's greyscale by now. When Jon looks at her, probably the first thing he notices is her smile. I decide not to mention this, for fear that I'm laying it on too thick. If I were talking to a younger version of myself, Katniss would be glaring daggers at me with accusations of condescension.

Lucky for me, Shireen is not Younger Katniss, and instead distracts herself with my arm again. "What about this one?" she asks, her finger hovering over the jagged scar from the Quell where my tracker used to be. "It looks different from the burns. Older. Lumpy. What did you survive here?"

"Oh, that?" I say, keeping a light, even tone. "That's where someone cut into my arm with a knife."

Shireen still looks distressed. "Why would anyone want to hurt you?"

"She was just trying to dig something out," I assure her. "Wasn't fun, though. Really disgusting, honestly. But it did help save my life."

Shireen looks as if she wants to ask more questions, which would likely involve me having to explain about the tracker, but then we both sense another pair of eyes on us. A simultaneous sideways glance reveals Stannis staring in our direction. Or, more specifically, at the burnt and mutilated arm in his daughter's hands, held out for display. I meet his eyes briefly, before pulling down my coat sleeves one at a time.

Melisandre, on the other hand, sneaks no more than a mere glimpse and eyebrow raise my way, and then her focus drifts back to the training in the courtyard. Apparently, she can't be bothered to tear her own gaze from Jon for very long. Her interest in him disturbs me on some sort of instinctive level, like watching my old lynx home in on a particularly juicy-looking morsel, so I look over at Jon as well, quietly feeling sorry for the Red Woman's prey.

So agile, yet so unsuspecting…

When I hear a little laugh, I turn to Shireen, who is grinning at me. "Are you sure you wouldn't marry Jon?" she prods, in a teasing singsong voice. "You never actually said so."

I can't help but share her laugh, even though the singsong reminds me of Rue. "I like Jon. He's a good guy," I say. "It's just that I'm still trying to get over the last man I was supposed to marry."

"You were going to marry someone?" Shireen asks, instantly enchanted by the promise of another love story. Then the intrigue in her eyes fades to understanding. "Why not anymore? Did he…?" She trails off, letting the silence speak the word for her.

"Yes," I say softly. "Near the end of the war. Panem's war. A few months ago."

Shireen looks down at her lap, ruminative and sorrowful for the loss of some otherworldly boy she's never met. Then she glances to me with a small smile. "Was he handsome?" she asks. "More handsome than even Jon Snow?"

At first I don't know how to answer that. A grin crosses my lips regardless, and that's when my fingers reach for the chain around my neck. "You tell me," I answer, taking off my medallion and opening the locket before handing it over to her.

She accepts it with exquisite care, cradling the locket in her palm. I can't tell if she's more dazzled by the boy or the prospect of photographs but it's clear she likes what she sees.

"His name was Peeta," I tell her. "Peeta Mellark. He was the baker's son. I was starving once, and he gave me bread. He burnt it on purpose so his mother would make him throw it to the pigs, but instead he threw it to me. I'll never forget that. We didn't talk to each other until years later, but I always remembered the boy with the bread."

"Your Baker Knight," Shireen says dreamily. When I give an inquisitive hum, she clarifies, "Ser Davos is the Onion Knight because he snuck onions and other things into the castle when we were starving. He saved us, just like Peeta saved you. He's your Bread Knight. Your Baker Knight."

I laugh, cheered significantly by the thought of Peeta in shining armor. I've seen Ser Davos's banner, so I try to imagine a loaf of bread in place of the onion, which makes me grin some more.

"What, too silly?" she asks.

"No, it's just…" I purse my lips, trying to control my smile. "He would have really liked you."

She beams, cupping the locket in her hands. "What was he like?" she whispers, eager to know more.

So I tell her. I tell her all the things I can think of about the boy with the bread, all the things I miss about him. I tell her he was a painter, and no, he didn't paint the tiny portraits in the locket, but he used to paint just as delicately onto his own skin. He could paint his arm so that it blended in with the trees. He could frost the most beautiful cakes. He could make the most delicious cheesy buns, which were my very favorite. His favorite color was sunset orange. Shireen asks a hundred questions – was he brave, was he strong, was he good with a sword? - and by the time I've finished listing off all things Peeta, I think Jon Snow may have some competition.

Of course, then Thorne notices me and wonders loudly if I don't have anything better to do, so Shireen and I exchange an apologetic look as I get up to see if I can help Hobb, Sam, or Gilly with something.

Shireen takes one last look at the locket before holding it out to me. "You must have really loved him," she says.

I hesitate, just for a moment, and then my fingers clasp around it. "Yeah," I say quietly. "I did. And he loved me."

I just wish I'd known it sooner. And that it hadn't taken losing him to figure it out.

That's what frustrates me about love. It's not some tangible plant growing in the forest. I can't recognize it until long after it's gotten into my system. And even then, I have to be told what's killing me.

Before I leave, I look back at Shireen one more time. She's still on the staircase, ready to resume watching the men train, but she smiles at me in farewell. I see Peeta there too, in the spot where I used to be, sitting next to her companionably while sending me an identical farewell smile. Suddenly, the girl beside him transforms into Prim, a little duck squatting on the stairs with the boy with the bread.

Seeing the two of them together makes my heart give a painful lurch. I manage to return the smile, but as soon as she turns her head, I draw in a weighted breath and hurry away.

Chapter Text

Gilly and I assist Hobb in the kitchens for an hour or two. She plucks while I skin and he chops in the background. Unlike Thorne, Hobb doesn't have a scowl or a comment for us when he catches us chatting. He reminds me a little of Mr. Mellark, mostly because he's a man of few words and many grunts, but also because he's mentioned my accuracy and how my arrow always hits the eye, never the body. He said it briskly with his back turned to me, but I still wonder if he was trying to disguise a compliment. Whatever the case may be, he mostly ignores us while we talk about hunting and our sisters and how we kept them fed, only interrupting to take what we're done with or hand things off to us.

Later, we track down Sam in the maester's quarters below the ravenry. He's standing at a desk and busily assembling a bunch of papers in a leather sleeve. He looks relieved to see us.

"Katniss, would you do me a favor and take these to Jon?" he asks, passing me the leather sleeve.

I accept it carefully, peeking in at the contents. "Sure, what are they?" I ask, just in case Jon wants to know and all I have for him is a shrug and a noncommittal noise.

"Letters, to the lords and ladies of the noble houses in the North. Asking them to send men and supplies to the Night's Watch," says Sam. "They're already written, I just need them signed and brought back to me to be sent out." He gives Gilly a look I can't quite read. "I'd give them to Jon myself, but Maester Aemon is still unwell and in need of our care, so Gilly and I ought to stay close by." He brightens too quickly and adds, "That's why it's such a good thing that you're here, really. Or, that you came when you did. I'd-" Cutting himself off, he glances at Gilly again with a half-smile that says more. "I'd hate to leave Maester Aemon alone for too long."

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it," I say, because I can read between the lines. He could easily let us girls be the ones to keep an elderly man company and watch him rest. What he actually means is that he's happy to have someone to send off to Jon so that he can spend more time with Gilly. From the shy, knowing grin on her face, she knows exactly what he's up to as well. I say pointedly, "You just worry about taking care of Maester Aemon."

They're so pleased with themselves that they miss the emphasis there, but I like them together so I decide not to give them a hard time about it. Instead, I secure the leather sleeve in the crook of my arm and exit into the courtyard, following Sam's directions to the Lord Commander's quarters.

I'm at the staircase before I realize that my heart is, inexplicably, racing. I climb the steps slowly and pause at the top as I fumble for a reason. Was I moving faster than usual? I don't think so. And I've been eating well, but enough to have staying power, not enough to be out of shape. Even trudging through snow, I don't usually get winded that quickly, so...

Snow. I stare at the closed door in front of me, and remember the study back home, the last time my palms started sweating out of nowhere like this. Breathing in deeply to calm myself, I inhale only the scent of wood and smoke and winter air. No perfumed roses.

There is a Snow behind that door, I remind myself firmly, but you do not fear him.

That helps. It's a sensible thought. I'm even relieved to find that it's true. But it doesn't explain the rapid heartbeat and clammy hands, which frustrates me. I find that my instincts are usually pretty reliable, so what am I responding to?

I force my mind to think clearly. The closed door. The study. Obviously it's because I haven't been alone with Jon since he became the Lord Commander. Even before that, when he burst into my room that night, it was my space he was invading. Now I'm about to enter his quarters while he's in full commander mode, whatever that's like, and hover over him while he does paperwork. Naturally, that's bound to be a little intimidating.

The reason is so simple and so stupid that I roll my eyes at myself in aggravation. What else could it be? I can't believe I let myself get worked up over that.

I take another step toward the door, and falter. Then again, it has some validity to it. What do I do? Should I knock?

After a few seconds of breathing and deliberation, I settle on a brisk prelude knock, give it half a moment to settle, then go right in. Seriously, what is it that's got me so riled up? It's just Jon.

Just Jon, sitting at his desk, hunched over books and papers with a quill pen in hand. His eyes don't look snake-like at all, just soft and dark and tired, but my heart still skips a beat when they flick up to meet mine. Which is ridiculous, because he's the one who's thrown by my presence, not the other way around.

His eyebrows jump upward in silent question, causing another brief twinge of unexplainable panic.

"Lord Commander," I say in a voice that sounds misleadingly at ease. My attempt to regain my composure is aided by the fact that the lighting in this room is not great, especially near the door, so there's no way he can see my cheeks burning from here.

"Something I can help you with?" he asks, then furrows his brow and frowns a little like he isn't sure how that came across.

Strangely, this comes as a huge relief to me. I'm sure he knows what he's doing, but he's also just as awkward as I am. He never asked to be Lord Commander, just like I never asked to be the Mockingjay. We just accepted our roles as they were given to us and ran with them, made them ours, even if at first they seemed as ill-fitting as those hand-me-down shoes District 13 made me clunk around in. He's still the boy with the curls who crashed into my room at the sound of my screams, sword belt askew as he searched around for an imaginary threat. Who later apologized for such an ungentlemanly intrusion. He's still that boy – or that man, I think he's a couple of years older than me – they've just given him a desk job.

Relaxing my shoulders, I shift the leather sleeve in my arms so that it's more noticeable. "Sam sent me. He's busy looking after Maester Aemon," I say, and try to disarm him with a sympathetic mouth twitch as I wave the folder at him. "More paperwork for you to sign."

Jon mutters something quietly and gestures for me to bring them over. Obediently, I approach his desk, and when he asks what they are, I tell him what Sam told me. Letters to the Northern houses requesting aid that need his signature. He sighs softly, then dips his quill in the inkwell and gets to work.

It works out well. We get into a rhythm of me passing and him signing. To fill the silence, I read off the names as I go, and he scratches in his own. But I must sound monotonous or something because after maybe a couple of minutes of this, a sympathetic half-grin crosses his lips.

"Sorry," he says with a slight chuckle. "I'm sure this must be boring for you."

I give a half shrug. "No, it's probably a good thing Sam sent me to do it. At least I'm learning all the big important family names."

"Some of them I've never heard of either," he admits, and casts a brief side-glance at me before looking forward again and shaking his head. "It's just," he says, and scoffs out another short chuckle, "I know what he's trying to do."

"Sam?" I say, and laugh a little too in understanding. "Yeah, he wasn't really subtle about it."

Jon looks at me again, more tentatively. "You're not offended, my lady?" he asks.

Offended? I'm more surprised by the "my lady" part than I am by Sam's little arrangement. "Why should I be?" I ask, shrugging again. "I don't mind. I think it's kind of cute, actually."

"You're taking it rather well," Jon notes, and there's the tiniest hint of a bemused frown.

"I mean, it's not like I'm being given the short end of the stick here," I say. If Sam had made me do something for Thorne, that would be different, but I consider Jon to be good company. Surely he knows that? Unless I've been pricklier about the Snow thing and the execution than I thought, which wouldn't exactly shock me. "Should have seen it coming, anyway. I kind of sensed something there from the day we met."

Jon blinks, as if caught off guard. He parts his lips in surprise, blushing on Sam's behalf. Come to think of it, I guess Sam's feelings could get him in trouble if they're obvious even to me, what with their vows and all. Do the vows cover more than just marriage and children? If they do, Sam doesn't seem to care, which is unexpectedly rebellious of him. I grin to myself, impressed.

Finally, Jon clears his throat and speaks. "I should think it was still a sore spot with you. Especially after what we discussed on the Wall," he says. "Forgive me for eavesdropping, my lady. I overheard some of the things you said to Princess Shireen earlier today."

The Wall? Shireen? I rack my brains, trying to see how either ties in, but find nothing. "Wait, what are you talking about?"

He hesitates, squinting at me. "What are you talking about?"

"Sam, trying to spend some alone time with Gilly?" I remind him, my grin returning with a tinge of confusion.

It takes a moment to settle, as Jon mulls this over like he's replaying the entire conversation in his mind. Then his shoulders relax and he laughs, turning back to his desk with another shake of his head. "Yes, I suppose his motivations are rather clear," he says, still chuckling.

I'm laughing too. "What did you think I meant?" I ask.

"It's not important," he answers, waving it away. Or maybe he's gesturing for another letter to sign. I slip him one and we get back into our rhythm.

At first, my brain wants to linger on our talk on the Wall and my conversation with Shireen and whatever they have in common, but I soon get distracted watching Jon scribble each signature. Inside the Lord Commander's quarters, away from the training yard, his gloves are off and the way he holds a quill is different than the way he grips a sword. I find myself fixated on his fingers, how they grasp the quill just as delicately as Peeta would a pen or paintbrush, making the same quick, precise strokes. Except the quill is much skinnier, and he twists it a bit whenever he takes a moment to read or frown down at one of the names, or he'll absently stroke it with his thumb.

He reaches again to dip the quill in the inkwell. I follow this movement with my eyes because the clinking sound it makes when he taps off the ink is oddly satisfying, and that's when I see it. The burn mark on his palm. It looks old, but distinct, the kind of scar I might've had there after my first Games if not for the ointment Haymitch sent me in the arena.

"What happened to your hand?" I ask, killing the silence because I cannot otherwise kill my curiosity.

There's a short pause as he glances at it reflectively, then he goes right back to scratching in his signature. "Grabbed a lantern and threw it at a wight that had gotten in," he says. "It was going to attack Commander Mormont."

I look at the nearby lantern hanging in the window and cringe at the thin bars, imagining trying to clutch it when the candle is fully ablaze. But another thought stalls me. "One got into the castle? How did it get past the Wall?"

"It was one of the rangers who was out there with Uncle Benjen," he answers. "We found his body beyond the Wall, and brought him through to be examined. It wasn't until after nightfall that he… came back." He accepts another letter from me. "We hadn't realized he'd been touched by a White Walker. This was before we knew what was going on. Now we burn all the dead."

I pause. So much for 'the dead cannot pass.' "How many people do we have guarding the Wall?"

"Fifty," he says grimly.

"Okay, yeah, we need more," I say. He scoffs appreciatively and signs another letter. My thoughts drift back to the origin of his burn. "I'm sure Commander Mormont must've been grateful, though. For what you did that night."

"He was," Jon agrees. "That's how I got Longclaw." He gestures toward the front of the room.

I spot his sword lying on the table, on top of his training armor and sword belt. It's sheathed, as it has been most of the times I've noticed it, but the pommel at the end of the hilt stands out as always. It's hard to see from here, but I know that the pommel has been carved into a ferocious wolf, white as Ghost.

"I get it," I say. "Longclaw. Because of the direwolf."

"It used to be a bear," says Jon. "For House Mormont. He had it changed."

I hand him another letter. "You Westeros families and your sigils."

He grins a little. "Sam tells me you came up with one. The songbird from your pin."

"Yeah, and I'm already regretting it," I say. "I should've just gone with a goat, or maybe a plant—"

"Or a cat," Jon suggests innocently.

"Absolutely not," I say, making him laugh. "Or a willow tree, or an arrow in a loaf of burnt bread or something."

"Ah, yes, for your Baker Knight," he replies, still laughing. Though it dies down after a second as he glances at me. The light from the window must illuminate the fierce blush that's suddenly singed my cheeks. I press my lips together, trying to control my embarrassment. So that's what he overheard.

My reaction is silly, I guess, because I know Jon already knows about Peeta. But I told him how I lost him, not how I loved him. Not the fine details I brought with me to Westeros that aren't locked inside a medallion, that turn him into a person instead of a ghost. He did apologize for eavesdropping, so I recover with a smile that probably looks more pathetic than reassuring.

He goes back to signing, but he must still feel bad about it, because a minute or so later he asks, "Did Stannis already talk to you?" And the mental jump from Shireen to Stannis is painfully obvious.

Still, I go along with it. "Yeah, a couple of days ago," I tell him. "He said the wildlings really like The Hanging Tree, and he wanted to make sure I wasn't trying to start any wars. I thought it went pretty well."

Jon's mouth twitches with faint amusement. "I figured, since I noticed you were standing with Ser Davos when I executed Lord Janos," he says, and looks at me. "My apologies that you had to see that, by the way."

"Don't worry about it. It was just surprising out of context. Really, I've seen worse," I assure him, handing over another letter. "Though with President Snow, he was more indirect with his executions. You know, guns, firebombs, hangings, mutts, poison. He always had something or someone else to do it for him."

He frowns thoughtfully as he fills in his name. "My father had a saying," he responds. "'Whoever passes the sentence should swing the sword.' He told us that if you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his last words." He sets the letter aside and waits for another. "If you can't bring yourself to do that, perhaps he doesn't deserve to die."

I pause in the middle of pulling another letter from the stack to stare at him in disbelief. This man could not be more different from President Snow if he tried. Even his lips are the opposite of Snow's, not puffy at all, so slender and subtle that they're overshadowed by his thin wisp of a mustache. Way more appealing than what President Snow was trying to do when he altered his. But I'm focusing on them too much, which is weird, and I don't want to think of Snow's bloody lips either. So when Jon puzzles at the delay and looks over at me, I blink the thoughts away and give him the letter.

"Sounds like the Night's Watch elected the right man, then," I say.

He studies my face for a moment, possibly deciding whether or not I'm making another dry remark, then I catch a small flicker of a humble half-smile before he looks back to his desk and scribbles in another signature.

The pile starts to thin out. I read off more names and pass them over. Ashford. Caulfield. Smallwood. Many tree-related names, one thing that stays consistent between worlds. Mayzen. I hope I'm pronouncing that one correctly. I grin a little, involuntarily, at Wibberley, and it shows in my voice.

"Something funny about that name, Everdeen?" Jon asks pointedly, though not without amusement.

"Just fun to say," I reply.

Jon raises an eyebrow, but I think I see a grin as he signs the letter. "Well, besides Snow and Everdeen, what sort of names do they have in Panem?"

"Some that would sound silly to people in Westeros, I'm sure," I say. "Mellark, Abernathy, Cresta, Odair, Latier. I also knew a Heavensbee, a Flickerman, and a Trinket. The last one's just as flashy and adorable as she sounds."

Jon smiles some more and appears to be mouthing one of the names to himself. Still grinning, I glance down at the final letter tucked in the leather sleeve, searching for the name of the recipient. When I find it, I immediately trade my grin for a furrowed brow.

Bolton. I do know this name. Why do I know it? It must be someone Jon mentioned during our talk on the Wall. I get a heavy feeling in my chest just reading it, so it can't be anyone good. All I can do is put it down in front of Jon while I comb through my memory.

Jon's just about to scratch in his signature when he notices the name himself. His smile vanishes from his lips, which tighten into a thin line, confirming my suspicions.

"Not him," he says hollowly.

"Yeah, I'm guessing that's why Sam had it at the bottom of the pile," I mutter, still trying to think. Bolton, Bolton... "Roose Bolton. Is he the one who-"

"He murdered my brother," Jon finishes for me, still staring at the letter like it's a viper poised to strike.

Right. That Roose Bolton. The one who betrayed Robb and stabbed him through the heart. By signing the letter, Jon will essentially be begging this man for help.

"Maybe we lost this one," I say. "Maybe a random gust of wind stole it out of my hand. Maybe it blew into the fire and burned up."

"Maybe Buttercup thought it was a plaything and tore it to pieces," Jon mutters.

"Sure, just call me Buttercup," I say. As he manages a wry, feeble smirk, I add, "How helpful can Lord Bolton really be to us, anyway?"

Jon sighs. "He's the Warden of the North," he gets out, as if each word tastes like poison. "So, very. Sam wouldn't include him if he wasn't."

I let out a slow breath. He's right. Warden of the North, as a title, implies command and a lot of influence over the North and its houses. If the Night's Watch is asking the North for men and supplies, this is the man we'll have to turn to.

Having killed the one responsible for Prim's death myself, I feel like a hypocrite for what I am about to say. But I also had to agree to something abhorrent in order to do that, so I decide to say it anyway.

"Look, maybe it's not my place, since my knowledge on the conflict between the houses is still pretty limited," I tell him, and he glances at me from his peripheral vision. "But in Panem, some of the districts hated each other because of what we had to do in the Games. Particularly Districts 1 and 2, wealthy loyalist warrior types, their tributes were usually volunteers. Their kids had been killing ours for years. Sometimes we killed theirs. We still needed help from all of them in order to defeat the Capitol." When he turns his head more fully to face me, I look him right in the eye. "Just had to remember who the real enemy was."

Jon stares at me for a long moment, before turning back to the letter, and there's a sullen silence as my words settle. The real enemy, which in Westeros would be the army of the dead that is bearing down on us as we speak. With only a Wall to separate us and them, we're going to need more than fifty men to guard it. Even if a portion of those men come from Roose Bolton.

In one swift movement, he scrawls his signature on the line and flings the quill aside, as if expecting it to combust in his hand and give him a fresh new burn. I snatch the letter from his desk so that he doesn't have to look at it anymore, then fetch the rest of the letters and slip them back into the leather sleeve while he sulks in his chair, biting at his knuckle.

If I were in his place, I think I'd need a moment, and possibly some dishes to throw. I don't have any dishes for him, but I do need to get these letters back to Sam, so I'm about to leave the room but I've barely taken more than a step and a half before the door swings open and the Red Woman briskly lets herself in.

I freeze in mid-step, shifting the sleeve of papers in my arm, and look at her warily. Maybe I shouldn't be so quick to leave Jon unguarded.

She merely stares back with shameless intrigue, as if pleased to see me, or even amused to find us together. "Lord Commander," she says, nodding to him respectfully, and then to me. "Girl on Fire."

I wince in protest at the title, which hits so much more viscerally when used right in front of Jon. "Please don't call me that," I groan.

"No?" Melisandre asks, nonplussed. "You seemed to resist being called the Mockingjay."

"You're right," I say under my breath. "If only I had a real first name."

I hear Jon muffle a scoff behind me, but Melisandre only smiles. "Katniss," she says, and turns her gaze back toward Jon. "I'd like to speak to the Lord Commander alone."

A persistent sensation in my gut tells me leaving Jon alone with this woman is, in fact, a terrible idea. Unfortunately, I have nothing to back this up except that gnawing feeling. I turn to look at Jon, expecting him to share my skepticism, but he only gives a slight nod to dismiss me.

Well, all right. I'm sure he can handle himself, and it could be that I am overreacting. Just as I did before I came in. Something about her request for privacy still nettles me – the words hungry lynx reappear in my brain, flashing blood red – but the thought is weirdly protective, so I force myself to ignore it.

"Sure," I say, walking towards the door. "I was just leaving, anyway."

Yes, it's like locking Jon in a cage with a prowling lynx. But he is a wolf, so at the very least, that should be interesting. She awards me a brief smile as I pass, then turns back to face Jon. At the door, I do the same, and sneak him a look of warning.

Careful, I say with my eyes, she's crazy!

He raises his eyebrows at me in response, then presses his lips together and shifts his gaze to Melisandre before our silent exchange can arouse any suspicion. Taking that as my cue to leave, I step outside and close the door behind me, shaking my head as I go.

My weird feeling doesn't go away. There's a side window I can slip by on my way to return the letters, and I'm tempted to eavesdrop, but that doesn't seem right. Wryly, I wonder if her Lord of Light would rat me out. If he didn't, probably someone else would spot me. I pause long enough to hear Melisandre's distinctive purr of "Come with us when we ride south," tell myself it's just war talk, and head down the walkway towards the maester's quarters.

You're on your own now, Jon Snow, I think to myself.

If he can fling fire at a walking corpse, I suppose he can handle the Red Woman.

Chapter Text

A few more days go by. I wake up in the middle of the night for all of them. It seems my talks with Shireen and Jon brought more dreams and memories of Peeta to the surface. Some of them are good, like our kisses in the cave and on the beach or watching him draw the illustrations for the plant book, but many of them are bad, like his crazed attempts to kill me. I think I actually prefer the nightmares, because at least when I wake from them, it's a relief. With the happier or more mundane dreams, I stir and look around, expecting to find Peeta in bed beside me, then remember why he's not. I guess it should be the same for the nightmares he used to protect me from, but he also used to be the reason that they went away, or the reason they never came in the first place.

Nightmares or no, when I rouse myself and he's not there, I know that sleep will be out of reach for a while. When that happens, I calm myself by retrieving the pearl from the parachute and holding it for comfort, rubbing it between my fingers or rolling it against my lips. Thinking of that last kiss. The last kiss I ever had that meant anything. It's been over a year since then, an epiphany that almost makes me drop the pearl in bewilderment. After all the kissing we had to do since the middle of our first Games, a year without it feels unreal. Maybe I've been going through withdrawals. Maybe kissing Peeta was like morphling. I remember the feeling of the one on the beach and think I might be onto something.

After that, I try to steer my thoughts away from the subject. The fact that Gale was the last person I kissed upsets me.

Instead, my usual escape is a trip to the library. I don't always get there. Once, I was on my way when I ran into Shireen, who confessed she had also snuck out of her room after a nightmare. I'd felt bad about it, thinking maybe showing her my burns and gnarly tracker scar wasn't such a good idea after all, but she waved away my apologies and my offer to let Buttercup sleep with her again. Then she asked me about my flashlight, and I ended up introducing her to the game of Crazy Cat. Ser Davos eventually caught us, having heard Buttercup meowing and us giggling outside, but was probably too perplexed by the light to make too much of a fuss or get us in any trouble. He just had her bid me goodnight and escorted both her and Buttercup back to bed. I never heard anything about it later from Stannis, so he must not have said anything.

Another night, what stopped me was the briefly terrifying sounds of a restless wolf. Once I caught my breath, I followed the sounds over to the larder and approached the door cautiously.

"Ghost?" I'd asked, placing my hand near the widest crack. "Can't sleep either?"

He'd grumbled and whined, but I could feel hot breath seeping out where he was trying to sniff for me. Once he confirmed my scent, his whimpering quieted down, though he still let out a few unhappy whines. I sank down in the snow by the door and offered him my hand again at the crack on the bottom, talking softly to him until the whines started to die down. Then I sang the Meadow song through the door, though I feel like that was more for my benefit than his. He's a direwolf, so I think he prefers snow to spring meadows and daisies. But by the end, he was calm, and so was I, enough to go back to bed. At least in my dreams, Ghost can join me in the Meadow. I wonder if he'd make a softer pillow than the green grass in the song.

On the nights I do make it to the library, it's Sam who discovers me. At first he just offers a friendly greeting and leaves me to read in peace. But the one night he catches me with a pen in hand, curiosity wins over courtesy and he asks what I'm writing.

"Memories of my experiences in Panem," I answer truthfully. "That thing Maester Aemon said a few nights ago, about writing things down, it kind of got to me."

"Oh," he says, intrigued. Then, more tentatively, "Do you think we might be allowed to read it when you're done?"

I look down at the part I'm on, which is a flashback detailing the events that followed my father's death, and frown uncertainly. "I don't know, it's kind of personal," I say. When he looks apologetic for asking, I amend, "But if you're looking for information on Panem, I could… write a more objective history on it?"

He's pleased by the idea and resumes going about his business, but later he asks about the pen and lack of use of an inkwell, and I pause to demonstrate how the ink is inside the pen. I decide to do my writing in my room after that, since I'll need to use the handheld device with the pages of memories stored inside, and that'll be harder to explain if Sam sees it.

The second time he finds me brushing up on Westeros's books and history, though, he helpfully reminds me, "You know, you can read in the library during the day."

"Just something to do when I can't sleep," I say, while privately thinking, pot calling the kettle black. Does he really visit the library this late so often? I'm new to this world, so I have an excuse. Sometimes the things he fetches or looks at while he's down here seem trivial, and at this point I wonder if he just comes down here to check on me. Then I feel guilty, because it's Sam and he does like books and has always come across as fairly decent and earnest, and I'm being my usual suspicious self for no reason.

Anyway, that's how I find myself in the library with Sam and Maester Aemon one morning, sitting at the little desk in the aisle, half-writing about the history of the Games and half-listening while Sam reads raven scrolls out loud. If anyone asks, my assistance is greatly needed in here, but really I'm staying informed and the two of them just appreciate my company.

I hear bits and pieces of news in the background. The rise of the Faith Militant in King's Landing. The arrest of Queen Margaery's brother Ser Loras. The continued search for Tyrion Lannister after the murder of his nephew King Joffrey and his father Lord Tywin Lannister. I'm thinking these Lannisters are such a mess that they're even killing each other when suddenly another familiar house name turns my head.

"Daenerys Targaryen?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder as I remember the short history lesson I received from Stannis. "Who's that? Is she related to Rhaegar?"

Aemon smiles in my direction, pleased that I have decided to engage. "His younger sister," he answers. "And the last surviving child of King Aerys and Queen Rhaella. Born into exile after the ruin of House Targaryen at the end of Robert's Rebellion."

Sam doesn't look away from the scroll in his hands. "They call her the Mother of Dragons," he says. "She has three of them."

I take three seconds to register this before I pivot in my seat. "I'm sorry, did you just say she has dragons?" I ask incredulously.

"Yes!" Sam says blithely. "Three. They say she hatched them from petrified eggs."

I stare at him blankly. "Dragons," I repeat more emphatically. "That means the same thing here, right? Giant, flying, fire-breathing lizards? Those actually exist in this world?"

Sam's chair creaks as he finally turns to look at me, but I wish he wouldn't because I'm already grimacing at my mistake.

"In Westeros, I mean," I mumble, waving my hand dismissively as if to say, oh, you know what I mean.

Blame it on my suspicious imagination, but for a moment I think I see a flicker of triumph cross Sam's face. I can't really tell because it vanishes and is replaced with his usual serene smile.

"In Essos, in this case," he corrects. "There were dragons in Westeros a very long time ago. They were considered extinct until now. Wait until you read about Aegon the Conqueror, and the Targaryen dynasty. The Targaryens were said to be the blood of the dragon."

"Hence their house words," I say, remembering. "'Fire and blood.'"

"Very good," Aemon praises, and chuckles softly. "If only dragon blood kept us warm here in the North."

"Maester Aemon's a Targaryen, too," Sam explains.

"Really?" I ask. The ruin of House Targaryen, as he put it, had made it sound like there was next to no one left. Yet here I am, in the same room with one. "What are you to Daenerys?"

"A man of the Night's Watch," he responds. "A stranger. A great-uncle. And of no use to her here."

"She's doing very well for herself," Sam assures him, and goes back to the scroll. "'And though Daenerys maintains her grip on Slaver's Bay, forces rise against her from within and without. She refuses to leave until the freedom of the former slaves is secure.'" He looks up again. "She sounds like quite a woman."

I can't argue with that. Fighting to end slavery, in my experience, is no easy task. Though I figure having three dragons must give her an edge.

"And she's alone," Aemon says regretfully, the sadness in his voice giving me pause. "Under siege. No family to guide her or protect her." I look over at him, feeling a painful twinge in my own chest. "Her last relation thousands of miles away."

His words touch a sore spot that I'm reluctant to admit is there. I feel for Daenerys. In a way, I am her. Not just for the fire, and the revolution, but because we are both far from home, worlds away from our last living family member.

There is no one like me in Westeros. No one from Panem except Buttercup. Even Beetee, my only direct contact with Panem, is just a voice that occasionally reaches my ear. And I can't say we're not friends, but at times I feel keenly aware that this is a science experiment to him. The other day, I was gleaning information from him on Panem's history while he was going over the footage I sent, and I heard another voice in the background calling his name and Beetee had to suddenly rush off. He later apologized for cutting the connection so abruptly, but all it did was remind me that he has work to do in Panem.

I am merely a part of that work, here in my winter arena. The lone tribute from District 12.

"Useless," Aemon rasps, breaking into my thoughts. "Dying."

Sam, who I only just realize was looking at me out of the corner of his eye, turns his head. "Don't say that, Maester Aemon," he says plaintively.

But he's right, I think. Anyone can see he's deteriorating. People in District 12 start feeling their years long before they reach Aemon's age, but maybe it's the starvation and decades of toil in the mines. Still, the fact that he's only slowing down now is nothing short of miraculous.

Aemon, a trained maester and not a fool, is unfazed by Sam's concern. "A Targaryen, alone in the world," he says, and shakes his head, "is a terrible thing."

I fiddle with my pen, teetering it between my fingers.

Is that me, too? I wonder. Am I alone?

I don't have much time to linger over it, because light footsteps descend the stone staircase and come to a stop at the bottom.

"Maester Aemon." Jon's voice drifts from the doorway. I look up, but stop myself from craning my neck to peek out at him. He started up his own eye aversions with me right after Melisandre paid him a visit. They died off after a couple of days, but still I wonder what went on in there. If maybe she told him something about me. What could she have shared with him that I haven't, to make him so nervous?

"Lord Commander," Aemon replies grandly.

"Sam, I'd like to speak to the maester alone," Jon says.

As Sam scoots his chair out, I figure that also includes me, so I click my pen and get up from the desk while quickly scooping my papers into my arms. The noise must've surprised Jon, because when I step out into the aisle, he's right there trying to look in, and we almost bump right into each other.

"Sorry," I say.

"Pardon me, my lady," Jon says at the same time. "I didn't know you were there."

I laugh nervously and slide around him, because I hate that little dance that happens when two people are trying to get past each other. It used to happen a lot between me and Gale when we were in places more confining than the woods, a downside of being too in-sync.

Thinking about Gale makes me leave faster, as if I can outrun the memory of him. But there are some people whose memories I don't want to push out. So when Sam catches up to me and asks if I'm all right, that I looked a little upset down there when Maester Aemon talked about being alone in the world, I tell him, "I'm fine. I just need to make a run to the woods, is all."

"Are you sure?" Sam asks doubtfully. "All by yourself in the woods?"

"Sure," I answer with a shrug. "It's the place that feels the most like home. I need to do some hunting anyway."

He still seems wary, but he lets me go. I retreat to my room to drop off my papers, get my bow and quiver and game bag, and head out.

In the privacy of the forest, I ask Beetee for something precious that he cannot give me by parachute – updates on the people I care about. His continued work on and involvement with this experiment must keep him busy, but surely he's heard from someone else in the past couple of weeks? I'd even be happy to hear how Johanna's doing.

Though he sounds awkward and fidgety at first at the question, he understands, and luckily, he's spoken to Effie and President Paylor recently, so he tells me what he knows.

Not as much has happened in Panem in two or three weeks as it has in Westeros, but in District 12, Posy has been asking about me, and the geese are less stressed now that Buttercup isn't paying them a visit. That's what Haymitch says, but according to Effie, he's just desperately searching for the bright side of my absence. Also, rumors of my disappearance are already starting to spread, but Effie has been trying to shut them down and disguise it as a well-deserved "vacation," in the hopes that people will mind their business.

Beetee then tells me of his talk with Paylor, who knows about his portal invention and that it's currently being tested, but not the identity of the test subject. Though, he amends, she probably suspects it's me. Anyway, while contacting her on my behalf to discuss obsidian deposits and references on Panem's history, he learned that Paylor has been working to uncover hidden secrets about the Capitol and the Games. For example, the tenth Games has been covered up for years and people want to know why. Me too, for that matter, since supposedly that was the year District 12 had its first victor. But the reason they ran into this is because they want to start destroying the arenas and building memorials for the tributes that were killed in each one, while also looking back on the victors and shedding an honest light on what Snow put them through after their Games.

"What happens if they can't find me for any of this?" I ask wryly. "I wonder how long Effie can drag out the 'vacation' excuse."

"Well, they likely won't need you until they get to the 74th," Beetee replies. "Your lack of attendance can be blamed on continued self-isolation, and I'm sure Haymitch and the others will vouch for you until then. Of course, we can always fake your death if need be. However," he says, and hesitates before finishing, "it's extremely likely I'll have figured out how to create an exit point long before then, should you wish to return."

Should I wish to return... I don't know what to do with those words. As soon as I hear them, they sink in my chest like rocks, and I feel like some sort of bluff has been called.

I miss people from Panem. I miss their voices. But the idea of returning through that portal stirs up a powerful rush of anxiety in me. My brow furrows as I try to discern what's so unsettling about it. And then it hits me.

"If I did return," I say slowly, "would the portal be able to bring me back here? To this exact world, at this exact time?"

Beetee pauses, and I wonder if I've asked a stupid question.

"I mean, of course, you've been able to send me parachutes and stuff," I say.

"Well, that's just it," Beetee says. "I've been able to send them because I have an established link to the world of Westeros, in this precise timeline, and that's you. Think of it as a star in the night sky. Because you are there, and trackable, you give off a glow, or a beacon to draw my attention to that particular star so that I may send things to it. If you are gone, so is the beacon. At this point in time, finding this world again amongst countless others would be... difficult, to say the least."

"All right, so what if I leave something here that you can track?" I ask.

"Maybe," Beetee replies uncertainly. "It could work, but I can't guarantee that quite yet. Not to mention we'd have to ensure the safety and power of the tracker, hoping that it doesn't get destroyed somehow or lose its charge before you return. Basically, you'd be taking a risk. And if we did find Westeros again... for instance, you might return in the time of Robert's Rebellion, or the Long Night, or long after your friends here have passed on. Or you might return to the same time, but an alternate timeline where you've never been there before and they don't know you."

That last part stings me, rubs at the rawest and most vulnerable wound in my heart, and I can't help but think of Peeta. His memories wiped, manipulated, rewritten. Maybe they wouldn't hate me like he did, but I would be a stranger to them. Everything we shared, lost. Left behind in a place that odds are I wouldn't be able to find again.

"I can look into it if you'd like," Beetee offers, after a long pause. "If there's a way to bookmark a universe, I'd be happy to find it for you. That is, of course, assuming you have any intention of leaving—"

"I don't," I say, and breathe out a misty sigh. "Don't bother. It was just a hypothetical."

"Are you sure?" he asks. "I'm a bit curious, myself..."

"You gave me a fresh start, Beetee," I tell him. "I'm not going to risk throwing that away because I'm a little..." I trail off. Is homesick the right word? "I just miss their voices, that's all."

Beetee promises, instead, to see if he can do something with my earpiece or another communication device so that at least one of us can connect me to someone in Panem with a phone. The thought of talking to Haymitch and Effie again makes me feel better, but it also reminds me of the letters, and I wrote those letters for a reason. I went through that portal for a reason. Home stopped being home when I came back to it without Prim and our mother, when it started feeling like an empty house, just like Peeta's down the road.

I realize then that it's not Panem I miss, but Peeta. This is the first arena I've gone into without him. And there's no point in going back if he's not waiting for me there. Nothing is waiting for me there.

I'm not alone in this world. I've made some allies. Peeta would be proud. It's just times like these that I yearn for the solidarity of my district partner – no matter how loudly he'd be moving through these woods right now.

Later, I return through the gate and deliver a good haul to Hobb. Plucking birds and skinning rabbits diverts my thoughts for a while. But after that, all I want to do is hide in my room until dinner. Work on the new book or Panem history, maybe. Or if I don't have the mental energy for that, which is likely, then just lay in bed holding the pearl or looking at pictures on my handheld device.

I've just dropped my game bag on the floor and put my bow and quiver against the wall when I sense that something is amiss. Not the weird kind of feeling that I get right before I find a rose that's not supposed to be there, but pretty close to it. I walk tentatively across the room, looking around for something that doesn't belong. Nothing jumps out at me – the only thing that's different from all the other days I've been here is the parachute on my nightstand, which is now being used as a paperweight — so I sigh and try to shake the feeling away. Blame it on my addled mind.

I sink down on the mattress and reach for my other bag, which slumps halfway under the bed. Digging out the device is surprisingly effortless, since I thought I wrapped it up tighter in some of the silver parachute fabric when I put it away last, but it's a little closer to the surface than I remember and not as wedged between the medical kit and compressed sleeping bag, which is probably why it's come slightly unraveled. Turning it on, I flick through the pages for a minute or two, but the anxious feeling persists. I give up and click it off, moving to set it aside on the nightstand. Then my eyes linger on the parachute.

Well, the container, to be more specific. I brought the parachute in its entirety for maximum protection of its contents, but the shell came to be a hassle since I needed to open it nearly every night to retrieve the pearl. Now it's shoved under my bed, stuffed with more parachute fabric and my devices at night, and the container stays on my nightstand with a lid that's easy to unscrew.

I reach slowly for the container and twist off the top, craving something I can actually touch, something to ease my mind. That tiny pearl that somehow holds all the comfort and stability that Peeta used to provide. As I feel around for it, my fingers brush blindly over everything else. The lip of the spile. The chain of the locket. The mockingjay pin. Nothing more.

The sensation that hits my stomach is like going down the stairs and missing a step. My lips purse into a frown, and I prod some more, but nothing small and round rolls forward beneath my coaxing fingertips. I don't want to believe it, but still I look inside.

The pearl is gone.

My breath catches painfully in my chest, stumbling drunkenly up my throat. I shift the trinkets around again, as if stirring three times will make the pearl reappear.

Nothing.

Starting to panic, I dump everything out onto the bed, spreading it all about on the blankets. The meager contents still aren't hiding anything. Peeta's pearl is not among them.

No… I stare down at the bed in horror, trying to swallow past the lump in my throat. No. This can't happen.

Rushing to the door, I try to think instead of crying, but maybe it's too late, or maybe the blast of brisk wind is what's made my breathing ragged. Did I take the pearl with me somewhere last night? Was it in my pocket? I'm so upset that I can't remember anything, so I go outside and search the ground, even scraping through the snow with my bare hands. When I can't take any more of that, finally deciding it's fruitless, I storm back into my room and drop to the floor.

It can't have left this room. I'm more careful than that, aren't I? The mockingjay pin, the medallion, yes, I've worn them around Castle Black, but I can't secure the pearl to my clothes or wear it around my neck, so it stays in here, inside the parachute. Only taken out for comfort or reassurance to help me fall asleep. Didn't it make it back inside last night before exhaustion took over me? Wouldn't I have heard it fall and roll if it didn't?

I crawl across the floor, looking frantically. Maybe I kicked it, maybe Buttercup played with it, maybe he swallowed it. Prim help him if he swallowed it, because one way or another, I will be getting it back from him. I refuse to consider the idea that someone has stolen it. It's one little pearl, precious but not fine gold like the medallion and the pin, so why would they steal one thing and not the others?

Besides that, the thought of having to confront the Night's Watch brothers on it, to draw attention to myself with accusations of pearl theft, is too overwhelming to bear. The only men who would come in here and steal a mere pearl are the ones who hate Jon, and therefore possibly me by extension, and I know I could never get it back without making a huge fuss. The fact that I would have to brings tears to my eyes. I wipe them away in frustration; they only make it harder to search.

Wondering if maybe I was so tired that I put it in the bag with my handheld device instead, I crawl back to the bag and drag it towards me, then start yanking everything out. The medical kit, the spare parachute fabric, the carefully wrapped photo of my parents' wedding, the sealed and compressed clothes I haven't worn yet because they aren't warm or black. The deeper I dig, the more my cursing devolves into shaky breaths, whispered pleading, and muttered bewilderment.

I'm throwing things at this point and fiercely unzipping compartments that I don't remember getting into recently, but memories can't be trusted and apparently neither can I when I'm on the verge of sleep. And then I hear creaking coming from outside, followed by a voice that grumbles something I can barely make out, before thudding footsteps stomp right through the threshold of my open door.

"I thought I told you—"

My frenzied searching comes to an abrupt halt as I glance up in shock. "What?" I say, too baffled to ask anything else.

Jon looks just as surprised as I am. He blinks and does a brief sweep of the room with his eyes, before lowering them in embarrassment to the papers in his hand.

"Begging your pardon, my lady. Just a misunderstanding," he says, and clears his throat. "You left these in the library. I only meant to return them to you…" Trailing off, he gets a better look at me, and bemused concern takes over instead. "Is everything all right in here?"

I quickly hide my face, even though I know it's too late, lowering my head in the guise of continued searching. Wiping discreetly at my eyes, which are surely puffy and red, I use my free hand to fumble through another compartment, then zip it closed a bit too hard.

"It's nothing," I say, trying to at least keep my voice composed and not so watery. When that fails, I stand up and turn my back to him, picking up the parachute container and scooping the trinkets back inside. "I just… I can't find my pearl, and I usually keep it in here, but I must've dropped it or knocked it over, maybe I didn't seal it right, I don't know…"

Did I do that? I had to move it when I made it a paperweight, maybe I did tip it or set it on its side, that sounds familiar. Maybe I need another bracelet marked "mentally disoriented." I wonder if I'm saying any of this out loud, because when I glance over my shoulder at Jon, he looks a little unnerved.

"Sorry for rambling," I say, setting the container back on the nightstand and peeking behind it again before going back to the bag. "I don't mean to waste your time. It's just a pearl."

I can tell from the expression on his face that he doesn't believe me. "Perhaps it could have rolled under the bed?" he suggests, then turns sheepish again. "Or is that the first place you looked…"

Now I'm the one who's embarrassed, because it really should have been. "Almost everywhere else," I admit with a shuddering sigh. I spared a quick glance after checking the blankets, and then again when I pulled the bag out from under it. But I didn't look far enough, and it's dark under there. I'd need the flashlight.

I unzip a compartment and fish mine out, but when I stand up, ready to head toward the bed again, Jon strides past me to the other side. "Don't trouble yourself, my lady. If it's down there, I can get it for you."

Dumbfounded, I watch him for a moment as he sets the papers down on the bed, then gets down on his knees. I mean, I've crawled on my belly under a chain link fence a thousand times to get into the woods back home, but all right. I go over and turn on the flashlight, then hand it out to him.

"Here," I say. "At least use this."

He considers it briefly, then takes it and illuminates the underside of the bed. Satisfied, he knits his brows in determination, then drops down and shimmies underneath a little farther as I step back to give him room.

I begin to understand why he offered to do this instead of me. As the Lord Commander, it probably wouldn't be considered proper to stand by and watch while I wriggled under the bed on a dusty floor until only my rear end was sticking out. Maybe I shouldn't be staring either, but right as I'm about to look away, his body shifts as if he sees something and my hopes begin to soar.

Finally, he pushes himself out by his elbows, one hand wrapped around the flashlight and the other closed in a fist. He gets up and sets the flashlight down on the mattress, keeping an eye on it for a second like it's going to catch the blankets on fire, then turns to me and opens his fist, revealing the pearl in the center of his palm.

I exhale in tremulous relief and disbelief, feeling the weight of my fear and heartache lift from my chest at the sight of it. It's still here. It's still with me. There's a fine layer of dust that it picked up from its hiding place, but I can probably rinse it off in the snow.

"Rolled right under the middle of the bed," Jon says with a light chuckle, taking the pearl carefully between his fingers as he approaches me.

"Thank you," I breathe, holding out my palm in anticipation. But I'm still too shaken and distracted to keep it level and steady, so when he releases it into my hand, it immediately starts rolling. "Oh—"

We both react quickly, moving to cup the side of my hand. Jon is faster and catches it while I'm in mid-curse, so my hand ends up cupping his instead. I stare uncomprehendingly for a second before letting it drop to my side.

Tilting the pearl back into my palm, he closes my fingers over it. It's a simple gesture – harmless, really — but it makes no sense to me, what I am seeing, what I am feeling. I want to shiver and yet the rest of me is burning. It's as if I'm a fire mutt again, or one recently put out, my skin raw and vulnerable and baby soft beneath his fingers.

Disoriented, I lift my eyes to his, only to see them drift up my wrist, where my sleeve has risen enough to reveal a preview of pink. This is officially too much, so I pull my hand away, hiding my wrist by holding my clenched fist against my heart.

"Thanks again," I manage, my voice still ragged. His eyes meet mine, but I remember how puffy and red they must be, so I turn and make a hasty retreat around the bed to the nightstand. "Sorry for making such a big fuss," I add, and pick up the container. "You must think I'm crazy for getting so upset over a tiny little pearl."

His voice comes from not that far behind me. "I figured it must mean something to you."

I clean the dust off the pearl with my sleeve and take a moment to admire its iridescence. "Peeta gave it to me," I tell him, then drop the pearl inside, watching it mingle with the mockingjay pin. "It was… kind of the last gift he ever gave me."

A silence ensues, but I can feel Jon's sympathy from here and I don't want the reminder that he's seen me after I've been crying, so I keep talking almost defensively.

"I take it out at night sometimes, because it helps put my mind at ease," I say, twisting the lid on tight, "but I guess I must've fallen asleep while holding it or it fell out somehow. I don't know. Maybe I thought I put it back but I really just dropped it or something and didn't realize it because I was so tired. Maybe Buttercup found it and started playing with it, and just knocked it under there."

Then I shut up, because I'm rambling again and I hate it. I've kept Jon here long enough. I turn to give him a look of apology. For finding the pearl, I at least owe him that much.

"Maybe," he agrees, but he's avoiding my eyes. Standing near the door, he turns to leave. He's only gone a couple of steps before he slows and lets his shoulders fall with a sigh. "No," he says, turning back around. "That's not true."

I'm confused. "It's not?" I ask, furrowing my eyebrows at him. His conflicted, even guilty expression suggests he knows something, but what?

Jon sighs again and walks back into the room to me. He gestures to the papers on the bed. "I came by earlier, to bring these to you," he admits. "I didn't know you were out hunting, so I heard noises in here and knocked." He hesitates, but quietly continues, "Sam opened the door."

Sam? For a few seconds I don't even know what to think. The big picture is so bizarre I can barely put the pieces together. "What was Sam doing in my room?" I ask. The only thing keeping me from raising my voice is the fact that I still can't grasp this in my mind.

"He was looking for something," Jon answers.

"Looking for something?" I echo. The first thing my mind goes to is what I expect most guys here to rifle through, especially if their vows make them swear off women, and it just seems so unlike Sam that I don't want to believe it. Trusting people wholeheartedly is usually a mistake, in my experience, but this has completely thrown me off, so much that I still don't buy it.

The idea seems to plague Jon too. "It's not what it sounds like," he hurriedly assures me, but he makes a face like he's not sure whether or not he wants to say more. Like he can't decide if the truth is worse or even more embarrassing. "He…" Jon says, and hesitates again, glancing over his shoulder. Then he leans forward and brings his voice to a troubled whisper. "He thinks you're from another world."

My mouth falls open in surprise, but then I remember Sam's reaction when I made my slip-up earlier today. His interest in learning about Panem's history. Even his armful of maps when he stumbled upon me in the library the first time – was he trying to locate Panem? I know I've exposed him to a couple of strange artifacts and technology, but Sam really is too smart for his own good.

"Is it normal for Sam to believe in that sort of thing?" I ask carefully.

"It isn't. That's what's so strange," says Jon, wrinkling his brow. "White walkers, yes, that's one thing. He read about them in books but then he saw them for real. But other worlds?"

He seems so distressed for his friend's sanity that I feel bad. "Well, it's not like he's crazy for thinking so," I point out. "I mean, different clothes, different accent, different… tools?" I gesture to the flashlight, which I notice he left on, then grab it off the bed and wave it around before switching it off.

"Other lands have their differences," he replies, though his eyes are trained on the flashlight. "He was specifically talking about worlds. Things you and the Red Woman have said. Like Panem being 'worlds away' – he thinks you mean it literally."

I press my lips together, mentally cursing at myself. Forget Sam's cleverness, that one was a little too on-the-nose.

"He says that's why she's so interested in you. And why Panem isn't on any maps. Why we've never heard of it, or of mockingjays, or the songs you sing, or any of the other things you've mentioned," Jon lists off. "He says the only other explanation is that you're lying, and he doesn't think you are."

I falter, because I can hear Sam's voice saying that. He trusts me enough to believe in the impossible. I don't know what to make of this, especially since I can't trust him to stay out of my room. "What do you think?" I ask Jon, searching his face.

He's quiet for a moment, considering his answer, then looks me in the eye and squares his shoulders. "I think we have more important things to worry about right now," he says.

"Yes, I think so too," I say, relieved.

"It doesn't matter where any of us come from," Jon says. "North of the Wall, south of it. East or west. The dead are coming for all of us."

"The living versus the dead," I note, grateful for the obvious subject change. "Now that's pretty unifying."

Jon chuckles halfheartedly. "I hope the Night's Watch sees it that way."

I frown at the skepticism in his tone. "What do you mean? Why wouldn't they?" I ask, then realize I'm playing anxiously with the flashlight and move to put it back in my bag.

"The wildlings," says Jon after a pause, following me a couple of steps. "Most of them are still on the other side of the Wall. If half the brothers had their way, they'd let the Others take them."

"But you're Lord Commander," I say, zipping the compartment, "so what's your call?"

Another pause. Longer. "I'm going to let the wildlings through the gate," he says softly, but it's enough to make me look up. "I'll give the order tomorrow. I trust you'll keep it quiet until then." I nod fervently, sensing the seriousness of the decision. I'm also a little dumbstruck at actually being let in on a plan for once. "I’ll be leaving for Hardhome with one of them and bringing them back here. I suspect tensions will be high around here for a while, particularly regarding wildlings, so it's probably best I let you know now."

I laugh. "Because Thorne still thinks I'm a wildling?"

"And likely everyone who voted for him," Jon replies.

"I thought I was from another world," I say, standing up. "I think I like Sam's theory better." He scoffs appreciatively, and I'm struck by a curious thought. "How does he think I got here? Magic? A portal? The Lord of Light?"

At the last one, Jon inclines his head at me, and I remember he was there when Melisandre said just that. Luckily, he seems to brush it off. "He didn't say. I'm not certain he knows that himself. That's why he was looking for proof," he says.

I think of the unraveled parachute fabric in my bag. "Well, did he find what he was looking for?" I ask, resting my hands on my hips.

He gestures to the handheld device on the bed. "He seemed interested in… whatever that is," he answers. "It glowed when he touched something. But he couldn't do anything else with it before I made him get out."

I reach over and pick it up, pressing the button myself and making the screen light up. "Basically making it just another flashlight," I say, smirking and waving the device in the air. "Sorry to disappoint him."

Jon frowns slightly. "I hope you don't think badly of him," he says. "This is the first time he's done something like this. I assure you he won't do it again."

"I know," I say. Honestly, it feels hypocritical to blame him. And I don't want to be the reason Jon starts doubting his friend. It occurs to me that I could inadvertently cause a rift in their friendship that never should have been there. "I hope this doesn't change your perspective on him or anything. It's not strange of him to be curious of a place no one's ever heard of." I add wryly, "And I am a very mysterious person."

"I'll give him that," Jon agrees, a small grin touching his lips. A silence falls between us, and he regards me for a moment, or the chaotic state of my room, before turning to go. "See you at dinner, my lady."

I scrunch up my nose. "Hey, what's with the 'my lady' thing lately?" I can't help but ask.

He stops and looks back at me, uncertain. "A common courtesy," he says, wavering on the eye contact. "You strike me as a highborn girl."

This sounds like it's partially true, but not the real reason. I'm pretty sure he overheard me tell Shireen about when I was starving and Peeta threw me the bread. I study him briefly and then shake my head. "In my world, there are no lords and ladies. We use different titles," I tell him. "If you don't want to call me Katniss because it's too informal – or familiar, maybe – then you can just say Miss Everdeen."

Jon acknowledges this with a nod. As he starts to leave again. I glance down at the device in my hand.

"Oh, and Jon?" I call after him.

A second later, he reappears in the doorway. "Yes, Katniss?" he asks.

Naturally, this catches me off guard, but I compose myself with a grin and hold up the device for display. "If you see Sam before I do, you can tell him…" I pause to press the button and tap at the screen, "next time, you have to press twice, and then spell 'Prim.'"

The screen opens up to reveal the place where I left off, a picture of the cake Peeta baked for Finnick and Annie's wedding. Jon squints at it thoughtfully, but I don't think he can make it out from here.

"There won't be a next time," he promises.

In response, I give a reassuring grin. "I know," I say, clicking the device off again. "That's why I'm telling you."

Jon manages a faint half-grin, then exits the room once more. I let him go this time, commencing the post-panic tidying up of my stuff that's been flung everywhere, but in a more pleasant mood now that the pearl is no longer lost in this unfamiliar world. Though it is getting more familiar each day.

Moving toward my bed with the bag, I drop it next to the nightstand as I notice the papers Jon returned to me. Curious, I pick them up to read what I carelessly left behind.

The top page finishes giving a brief description of each district, continuing where I left off with District 7 on the page before, wraps it up with a note that District 13 was believed to be decimated and thus was never a participant in the Hunger Games, then moves on to the topic of presidents. Even with Beetee's assistance, I don't have much to say about Ravinstill except that he was Panem's president when the Games began, that he was the president during the time of the First Rebellion and long before.

It's Snow that I go into excruciating detail about. If Ravinstill gets a paragraph, Snow gets a page and then some. I mention all the things that Finnick divulged — his rise to power at a young age, his use of poison to kill off adversaries and allies alike, his selling the bodies of attractive victors and killing loved ones if they refused. His downfall is described as starting with the 74th Games, where the two final tributes – unnamed, of course — defied the Capitol by threatening a double suicide, choosing to die together rather than give the Capitol a victor when they revoked the district team rule change. Though they were both crowned victors, their actions in the arena sparked an unrest in the districts that ultimately led to the Second Rebellion.

I include Snow's retaliation — the Third Quarter Quell with the reaping of the victors — and vaguely mention the escape and the destruction of the arena by one of the victors as the beginning of the war. His section, like the war itself, ends with his death, which you can tell by the change in ink strokes that I took great pleasure in penning. I note that the unexpected assassination of the interim president threw Snow's public execution into chaos, so it is unknown whether his cause of death was choking on his own blood with laughter or being crushed by the mob.

In comparison, Coin's section is like her own reign as interim president — embarrassingly short. I mention her position as leader of District 13 and the rebellion, her tactics used to win the war, her suggestion of a symbolic final Hunger Games, and her assassination during Snow's execution, but that's about it. Paylor gets praise as the current president and the first one to end the Hunger Games for good, and then I move on to describing known arenas and mutts before the page cuts off.

I sink into the edge of the bed, and my heart sinks with me as I shuffle back and forth between the pages. So many mentions of the name Snow, they almost scream out at me, the lettering bolder and darker from increased pressure on the pen.

If I were Jon, I'm sure I would've snuck a peek at the contents. If I were Jon, I would have been unable to ignore the multiple instances of my name, scribbled with hatred. The deeds of this person who shares it with me. He certainly had time to read them after failing to drop them off when he found Sam – though I suppose it would've given away that they'd been here.

Somehow, the thought of Jon reading this feels much worse than Sam's intrusion. I want to call him back in again, tell him that President Snow would never go to the trouble to salvage anything of Peeta that I treasured, he only ever strove to take him from me. That this is a different world, and he is a different Snow.

And unlike the other one, I think I can live in a world that has him in it.

Chapter Text

Sam and I don't see much of each other later at dinner, and I decide to stay in my room writing when I wake in the middle of the night, so we don't really get a chance to interact until I meet up with him and Gilly in the library the next morning. When we do, I can't ignore the awkwardness of the situation. How do you conduct yourself around someone when you know what they've done? I can only keep myself cool and composed, as I did with Coin during the vote, but it's weird and harder to do when it's Samwell Tarly I'm dealing with here. He's too gentle and friendly, like Delly Cartwright, and how can anyone freeze out Delly? It's unthinkable. I have no experience with something like this.

I end up talking mostly to Gilly and giving Sam polite but terse responses. He doesn't catch on right away. Maybe he's too lovestruck by Gilly, or maybe he's just giving me the benefit of the doubt. But when Gilly leaves to fetch something from the ravenry, and it's just the two of us, the next two-worded answer I give him stands out in the silence of the library. It's too quick, too clipped, too obliging. Out of the corner of my eye, I see half the smile leave his face as he turns to me.

"Jon told you, didn't he?" Sam asks.

I finally look at him, if just to confirm with a slight eyebrow raise.

"I'm sorry," he says sincerely. "I know I shouldn't have done it, but—"

"You had a theory, and you were looking for evidence," I finish for him matter-of-factly.

Despite his obvious relief that Jon clarified he wasn't just being a creep, Sam still looks contrite, which helps me remember that I'm not mad at him. Really, who am I to give him a hard time for spying?

"Well, I listened in on the election, so I guess we're even," I tell him, and he looks more relieved (and only a little surprised, so I wonder if Gilly already told him). "But you should have come to me." As an afterthought, I add, "And be more discreet. You almost got Jon thinking you're crazy."

"Better than his first thought when he found me in there," Sam says, blushing. "I would have gone to you about it, but I didn't know how to ask you without people overhearing and thinking we're both mad. I considered following you into the forest, but I thought it would be a bit... inappropriate."

"Like searching through a girl's things?" I offer.

"Yes," Sam says, resigned. "Like searching through a girl's things."

We're both quiet for a moment, but the prolonged silence allows a temptation to ferment inside my mind, building up until I can feel it bubbling on my tongue, ready to burst. Finally, I can't take it any longer. Before I can stop myself, what comes out of my mouth next is, "I mean, you're not wrong."

Sam stays fixated on the parchment in front of him. "I know, that's why I didn't do it," he says. "And besides, I'm sure I never would have caught up with you. I'm not a very good tracker—"

"Not what I was talking about," I say.

He furrows his forehead in thought, so I shift in my seat and give him a meaningful look to get the point across. It takes a few seconds but his eyes gradually grow wider in realization.

"I'm not?" he asks, soft and incredulous but pressing with a deeper question.

In response, I shake my head, and let another pronounced lift of my eyebrows say the rest.

This answer is more than satisfactory to Sam, whose expression changes from hesitation to delight in an instant. "I knew it," he says, hunching closer so that I can catch his conspiratorial whisper.

"But how did you know it?" I say. "Yeah, you're smart, but even in Panem, the concept of other worlds is… well, let's just say it wouldn't be my first thought. Until recently, I didn't even believe it was possible."

"Neither did I, at first," Sam admits. "It hadn't even crossed my mind until the Red Woman said to you, 'in this world or the other, there is no escaping it.'" I scoff, because of course it's the Red Woman who's blown my cover. "It sounded odd to me, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. And then, when I asked Jon if you told him where Panem was, he told me that all you said was 'worlds away.' Besides that, you never gave a specific answer as to how you got here. You only told Maester Aemon that it was hazy. Which means that either you honestly can't remember, or it was something you felt you wouldn't be able to explain."

"Or I was just concussed," I venture, shrugging. "Jon says you don't think I'm lying. Maybe I'm not, but I could be crazy. I could be suffering from psychological damage."

"You're not," Sam insists.

"I don't know. I wouldn't rule it out, myself," I mutter. For all I know, everything that has happened to me lately could be a long and elaborate dream. I don't know where it started – going through the portal, seeing it for the first time, maybe even getting the letter – but if it is, I'm not entirely sure I want to wake up.

"No," says Sam, shaking his head. "This is the only thing that makes sense." I laugh a little to myself, since the phrasing is generous. He looks over at me. "How did you get here?"

"Through a portal," I say, emphasizing the word with a lingering grin. "A doorway of energy and light. Does that still make sense to you?"

Sam smiles. "No more or less than your flashlight," he replies. "Or your... whatever that other thing was that lit up in your room."

"It's just something that holds memories from home," I say. Then my grin starts to fade, and I look over at him. "Sam, how good are you at keeping a secret?"

"Not very," he admits. "But who would believe me? Jon didn't."

"Who can blame him? He's got enough to worry about right now," I say. "You know, more realistic things. Like an army of dead people on the march." Even though I've seen them myself, I have a hard time keeping a straight face, and Sam gives a nervous, sympathetic chuckle because he knows how it must sound. As it dies down, my mood sobers, and I fix him with a much sterner look. "Seriously, Sam. This has to stay between us."

Pale eyes wide with understanding, Sam's in the middle of a solemn but emphatic nod when suddenly a voice comes from behind. "What has to stay between you?"

Gilly. She's come back from the ravenry. I have no idea how long she's been there, but she's watching us like a hawk, eyes darting expectantly back and forth between Sam and me.

Sam regards her with slight surprise, then looks back at me hopefully.

"I can't keep this from Gilly," he says, practically pleading with his eyes. "And who is she going to tell, really?"

This gives me pause, and I take a moment to consider Gilly. Sam does have a good point. Besides that, she looks vaguely jealous, or suspicious at least, and I'd much rather let her in on it than get caught up in a fresh batch of relationship drama over a misunderstanding.

"All right," I concede, and motion toward the table. "Have a seat, Gilly. This is going to be a little hard to take in."

It's easier than I expected. There is some resistance at first, and Gilly almost leaves the room firing accusations of us meeting alone in the library and cooking up this lie to make fun of her. Sam rushes to reassure her, but I understand the mistrust. The Katniss from a year ago would have suspected a trick more easily than she would have accepted the possibility of other worlds. Yet here I am. Existing in a place where dead people march in an army, and dragons live just a continent away from us, and a red priestess knows things about my life that she shouldn't thanks to a tip-off from the Lord of Light. A place where I've made friends with a princess, a steward, a direwolf, a lord commander, and a wildling.

When I tell her this, she looks into my eyes and calms some, drifting back to the table and sitting down. She listens as I explain more, they both listen as I talk of losing Peeta and Prim, of trying and failing to live in District 12 without them, of getting the letter from Beetee that changed everything. They're sympathetic, of course, but riveted when I get to the part with the portal. Even Sam doesn't seem fully convinced Beetee isn't a wizard. Though, how do you explain the difference between a wizard and an inventor in Panem who has access to more resources and technology? I'm not all that sure there is one.

But by the end, I've gained something valuable. Two of my truest allies in this world, confidants who have taken some of the weight of my secret off of my shoulders. It feels good to have people here I can talk to about this, and visible people too, so it doesn't look like I'm talking to myself. Their unwavering faith reminds me even more of Delly, who I find myself actually missing because of it, but also makes it so much easier to finally speak freely.

"So you just… stepped through?" says Gilly. "And it brought you here, beyond the Wall?"

I nod. "The Haunted Forest, or somewhere in that area."

"Unfortunate place for it to spit you out," Sam remarks. "How long was it before the wights were upon you?"

"Couple of hours," I say, "but I wasn't heading south until Benjen told me to." A thought that I can't quite place begins to gnaw at me. "Where did you two see them? When you were out there."

"It was closer to the Wall, between here and Craster's Keep," Gilly answers. "But it was just the one. The White Walker who had followed us to take my baby."

"As for the army, I saw it marching toward the Fist of the First Men," says Sam. Then, more curiously, "Why do you ask?"

Good question. I'm still wondering that myself. "Just a feeling," I mutter.

I find a map of Westeros, including the lands beyond the Wall, and bring it to the table, quietly scouring it while I let Gilly and Sam go back to what they were doing before we veered so long and far off-course. Craster's Keep I find quickly, since it's just east of my world entrance spot. I might've even found it if I hadn't decided to follow the river instead. The Fist of the First Men is northwest of both of these points. Sam said the army was marching south when he saw them, but what about the ones that chased me down? I know Sam saw the army before he brought Gilly and Little Sam down from Craster's Keep to Castle Black, and that was just after Little Sam was born, so it had to be more than a few months ago. Maybe a year or two. If ten wights were close enough to find me mere weeks ago…

I wrinkle my forehead, trying to figure something out. From how Jon made it sound, you have to be touched by a White Walker somehow to become undead. There used to be one near Craster's Keep, but Sam killed it long ago. So either my attackers were turned by that one before it was killed, or they came as stragglers from the army. How far away was I from thousands of dead soldiers before Benjen turned me around? Or are they just scattered all over the place? I prefer this thought to Benjen charging straight north and facing the entire army on his own, even if he himself is dead. But, factoring in their speed of travel, likely lack of need for sleep, and time since Sam saw them, the uncertainty of their location is bugging me.

Finally, I break the silence and ask, "Where's Hardhome?"

"Hardhome?" Sam glances over at the map in interest, pleased to answer another question. "It's off to the east. Right… there." He points to the end of a peninsula jutting out into the Shivering Sea.

"Would the White Walkers go that far east?" I ask, hovering my finger from The Fist, to Craster's Keep, to Hardhome. "I mean, how sure are we of where they're going? Are they sentient, or are they mindlessly going straight south? If you saw them at The Fist whenever you did, where would they be right now if they were going south without having to rest?"

Sam takes a moment to mull it over, which is fair, since that was a lot of questions at once. "I don't know," he admits, glancing at the map. "The ones I saw were moving leisurely. Not like the ones who chased you. But it doesn't take two years to get from the Fist to the Wall, if you don't need to eat and sleep. Something else must be slowing them down."

There's a pause, before Gilly asks quietly, "What does 'sentient' mean?"

"Being able to think or feel or understand things," I say. "You know, use sense and make decisions."

Gilly contemplates this briefly. "That White Walker was able to find us when we took Little Sam," she says. "It knew to come to Craster's Keep whenever he took the boys into the woods. I think the White Walkers are sentient. The rest just go wherever they lead them."

I nod, but while Sam gazes admiringly at Gilly for her insights, they only add to my unease. The army could be anywhere, and those wights that came after me are our only clue.

"You don't think they're headed south?" Sam asks, once he's taken his eyes off Gilly.

"Not the ones I met out there, at least," I tell him. "I don't know, maybe they broke away from the pack when they spotted me. Or maybe they already had by then. But I was going east, so…" I trail off, staring at the map. "I'd just feel a lot better if I knew where they are right now. If they aren't coming straight for us, then where are the White Walkers leading them? What do they want first that could make them go off-course?"

Sam and Gilly exchange glances, but it's Gilly who answers. "More sons," she says softly, and looks at Sam again. "More wildlings."

A chill passes through me at what she's suggesting. That the undead are not simply traveling south and cutting down anyone who gets in their way. They are on a Victory Tour of death, going out of their way to slaughter all the wildlings they can possibly add to their army.

"I take it there are a lot of wildlings at Hardhome…?" I venture.

"It's a known wildling settlement," Sam says. "You saw the size of their army when you were beyond the Wall. If there was one place most of them would've gone after Stannis defeated them, it would be Hardhome."

I stare at the map, hoping I'm wrong. If Jon is going there, it's because he's trying to save their lives. And if that's the case, he believes the White Walkers could be coming their way. I just have to be sure he's going to get there first.

"I need to talk to Beetee," I say, starting to stand up. Then it occurs to me that I don't have to go anywhere. "I usually go to the forest to get ahold of him, but seeing as there aren't any secrets between us now, do you mind if I do it here?"

"No, not at all, go right ahead," Sam says encouragingly, though clearly somewhat puzzled by the request. Gilly looks intrigued, especially when I reveal my earpiece to them in the palm of my hand.

"Just to show you I'm not talking to myself," I assure them, before fixing it into place and adjusting my barely visible microphone. Getting up from the table, I move more towards the shelves to be less of a distraction while I reach out to contact Beetee.

When he answers, I tell him I need a favor that is more important than the multipurpose earpiece project. "Is there a way we can send some kind of camera out to fly overhead? See if we can locate the wights and the direction they're going?" I ask. "I know what Plutarch said about drones being a thing of the past, but—"

"—if anyone could bring back the technology, it would be me?" Beetee finishes for me, sounding pleased. "What Plutarch likely meant was military drones. The type of drone you're looking for won't provide an aerial attack, but it will provide an aerial view. Besides, you're talking to the victor from District Three. I can design one just as easily as I can acquire one for you. It shouldn't be a problem at all."

"Thank you," I say with a sigh of relief. "There's a wildling settlement way off to the east called Hardhome. I need to know if it's safe."

"I'll need to have a look at a map again, once you get back inside," Beetee says. "Are you at the weirwood tree now? I can get the drone, program it, and release it within a few hours, but it might not end up happening today."

"That's fine," I say, going back to the table. "I'm not in the woods right now. I'm in the library with Sam and Gilly."

There's a pause, as I'm sure Beetee is bemused that I'm not speaking in hushed tones. "You told them?"

"Sam already figured it out," I say, and sit back down in front of the map. "You want to say hello to them while I turn my camera on?"

Captivated yet careful, Gilly and Sam take turns awkwardly positioning the earpiece and daring to speak into the microphone. I almost forget about the map and the camera in favor of watching the looks on their faces the moment they hear Beetee for the first time.

"How are you doing that?" Gilly asks when it's her turn. "Sending your voice through this little thing in my ear."

I barely bite back a wince, hoping Beetee has the sense to tell her the short, simplified version. But Gilly listens, enraptured, and gets so invested in the conversation that Sam has to clear his throat and politely gesture with his eyes for her to hand it back.

"He says it's like Panem's version of sending a raven," she informs us. "But instead of scrolls, it's bringing 'sound waves' and 'audio signals.'"

"Or, like two ravens that share one mind," I offer. "So instead of giving the raven a scroll, you tell it yourself and the other raven hears it and... tells someone else." Gilly and Sam share covert grins at my efforts, and I hear Beetee already chuckling before I put the earpiece back in. "Hey, at least my explanation didn't involve the use of the term 'audio signals,'" I say defensively.

"No, it made sense. I liked it," Gilly is quick to reassure me, eyes crinkling with mirth.

Though still under the vague suspicion that they're humoring me, I let myself grin and lean forward to give Beetee a close view of the map. While he studies it, I point to the places where Sam, Gilly, and I have all encountered the dead.

"Well, with an army of that size, they shouldn't be hard to locate from above," Beetee reasons. "I can release a drone. I can make that happen. It can be ready by tonight, but I don't know if the Watch will want to let you go through the gate after nightfall. So my main question is, do you want to wait until tomorrow so we can ultimately make sure it comes through and takes off all right, or should I try to release it tonight by myself, perhaps someplace closer to where you had your run-in with the dead?"

"Go ahead and do it tonight," I say. "The sooner the better. The dead don't rest."

Besides, he doesn't need my help with this. He's Beetee. Whatever he sends through that portal is going to do exactly what it came here to do.

"All right, then," says Beetee. "All I need now is a place to send it to."

"Like a landmark? I would think the first entrance point would be the best place for it," I point out.

"Yes, but you didn't spend very much time there," Beetee remarks. "It's funny, but the strongest, most reliable connections I've established with Westeros are the places where you stayed in one place the longest. Especially places that aren't just forest or stretches of land or snow. Having a good visualization of where I'm sending it to would help immensely."

All right, landmarks… landmarks… Preferably farther north than the weirwood tree. The problem is that the spots I made camp were usually trees in the middle of the forest. But then the perfect place hits me.

"Do you remember that cave?" I ask, instantly warmed by the memory of its hot springs.

"The one by the river, yes…" Beetee says, and I can tell he likes the idea.

I knew there was a reason I stayed there as long as I did. Actually, there were many reasons. Sometimes I don't know why I'm still freezing my toes off at Castle Black when I could go back there and dip them in its steaming pools. "You could send it out there and follow the river northeast to Craster's Keep," I say.

"It's burnt to the ground," Sam adds in.

"The ruins of Craster's Keep," I revise. "Then you could just keep going east from there. If you hit ocean, looks like you could go north until you reach Hardhome—"

A purposeful thump of footsteps causes all of us in the library to flinch and glance up in surprise. Standing in the doorway at the bottom of the stone steps is Jon Snow, his smoldering gray eyes locked on me.

"Sam. Night's Watch meeting in fifteen minutes," he says curtly. "Might want to wrap things up in here."

Sam nods and starts rolling up some of his scrolls. "Oh. What about?" he asks.

"You don't know?" There's an edge to Jon's voice, a chill to match the room, and his eyes still have not left mine.

My face feels hot, but something about this look is sending shivers through the rest of me. Like when Peeta was brought to Thirteen, and I confused rage for desire and it earned me a strong grip and then a cold collar around my throat. For this reason, I don't know what to make of this look. I get the distinct feeling that I've said or done something wrong. A brief glance at Sam and Gilly tells me they're just as confused as I am.

After a beat, the tense silence is broken by Jon. "Why were you talking about Hardhome?" he asks briskly.

Oh. My pulse hiccups in realization at what he's walked in on. I can see how this might sound bad. Luckily, Sam picks up on my alarm and comes to the rescue. "She just wanted to know where it was," he answers for me.

"Why, were you planning on going there?" His voice cuts quick and cold, like Longclaw.

It's his attitude that strikes a nerve with me, though, and I bristle by instinct. But before I match his stony expression with one of my own, I notice something about him that throws me off. Something behind the frigid, guarded look in his eyes. This isn't frosty, wrathful anger borne as a result of my alleged disobedience. Beneath that layer of ice, he seems genuinely upset, even taken aback. As if what he's just overheard is one big slap in the face to him. As if he is utterly bowled over by the fact that I would reveal things he said to me in confidence and is finally seeing me in a new light. I cannot be trusted.

For a moment, I almost believe it myself. I let him look at me like that, and a sick feeling rolls in my stomach as it flings me into the hospital room with Peeta in Thirteen when I knew he was finally seeing me as I was. Not some enchanting songbird he fell in love with but the fickle, manipulative Girl on Fire. Perhaps Jon is seeing past Benjen Stark's messenger to the mouthy mockingjay who thinks the rules don't apply to her and has gotten too comfortable here.

Except this actually feels like a huge overreaction on Jon's part, because I didn't even tell them anything, and he can't have heard much or else he would have a lot more questions. And even if I did say anything, it's Sam and Gilly. Surely he has even more reason to trust them with secrets than I do. Indignant, I swallow past the lump in my throat and force a reply.

"Not really," I say, keeping my tone and expression deadpan. "When the time comes that I've overstayed my welcome here, for obvious reasons I'd rather go south, not farther north."

There's a shift in his features, and I think he can tell he's offended me, but he still looks doubtful. "I heard you giving directions to it. From Craster's Keep."

This time Gilly speaks up. "You said my sisters wanted to find their own way after it burned to the ground," she says demurely. "I've wondered if perhaps they went to Hardhome. It might be cursed, but some of them used to whisper that it was our best chance of refuge north of the Wall."

I do my best to keep my features in place, but inwardly, Gilly has impressed me. She never said that was exactly what we were talking about, but also it has the benefit of not being a lie. It may even be true. When the thought strikes me, so does a feeling of real sympathy for her. She has no idea where her family is. Or if they've made it this far, lasted this long on their own.

Jon seems to buy this, the doubt that furrowed his forehead now fully turned on himself. But there's wariness and hurt that still fogs his eyes, and my own upset only increases. We've given him a plausible explanation, so take the knife out already! Why is he still twisting?

It occurs to me that I don't have to take this, so I roll up the map and rise from my seat to put it away. "Better go check on Maester Aemon and see how he and Little Sam are doing," I say, talking mostly for myself but leaving the invitation open for Gilly to follow. "Let these two get ready for their meeting."

After making sure I haven't left anything behind – no need for Jon to go to the trouble of returning it to my room — I try to breeze past him toward the doorway. I move so swiftly it takes him by surprise, but he recovers in time to call out to me before I've reached the staircase. "Have you been talking to the Red Woman lately?"

The question alone would give me reason to hesitate, but it's the accusation in his voice that makes me whirl back around. I look him straight in the eyes, feeling inexplicably angrier. "Not if I can help it," I shoot back, silently reminding him that he's the one who was alone in a room with her last. What does she have to do with anything anyway? The irrelevance, the distrust, even the thought of them alone together (whatever was said or done), it all adds fuel to the fire that is burning away at me. But that's what she wants, isn't it? My fire. So I conjure up my ice instead and regard him with a much cooler look.

"Will that be all, Lord Commander?" I say in monotone.

I barely wait for a response. He's in mid-nod when I turn on my heel and escape up the stone staircase.

Halfway up, I can hear Sam's voice saying, "What was that about?" But I don't stop to hear an explanation. I keep going until I've pushed through each door and made it outside to the courtyard. Only then do I catch my breath, and I find that each one is painful and shuddering. It is to my utter mortification that I realize I am on the brink of tears, and the only thing that stops me from crying is the memory that Beetee could still be hearing all this.

With trembling fingers, I turn off my devices and end the connection. Of course, that's when Gilly catches up with me and asks if I'm all right, so I pull myself together and walk with her to the maester's quarters, thanking her for covering for me and asking about her sisters.

The subject change is a success and lasts for a while as we take over for another steward who's off to join the meeting, partially because I am as genuinely curious as she is genuinely concerned for them. I think when it comes to our sisters, her circumstances might be worse, because I know where Prim is. She's gone, for good. No one can hurt her anymore. But Gilly doesn't know where her sisters are. If they found a way past the Wall like she did, or if they're all somewhere beyond it. If they're at Hardhome like she guessed. If they're dead or alive. She just doesn't know.

Ultimately, though, all that does is bring my thoughts back to Jon. He has loved ones missing too, including at least one beyond the Wall. No, two if you count Benjen. And that just reminds me that there is at least one good reason for Jon not to trust me, even if he doesn't know it. I remember how betrayed I felt when Gale didn't tell me about Peeta's propo with Caesar. But Benjen asked me not to tell Jon, and at the time, I believed that was for the best. That I was only doing as told, and we were both trying to spare his feelings. I wonder if, back then, Gale was telling himself the exact same thing.

At least now I know what it looks like for Jon to become disillusioned with me. Even if it was for something I didn't do, it was still bound to happen sooner or later.

I don't understand why he got that upset, how my perceived betrayal could cut him that deep.

I just know that the moment I tell him about Benjen, not only will I see that look on his face again, but this time I will deserve it.

Chapter Text

There's shouting coming from the dining hall when Gilly and I come that way to start aiding things in the kitchens. Whatever Jon's saying, it's getting a lot of men ticked off. When we both pause in front of it, Gilly glances over at me, knowing exactly what I'm wanting to do. She may be the first person to ever find me predictable, at least in this world. I look back at her hopefully and she nods, wordlessly agreeing to be the lookout. Satisfied, I go up to the barrels and ditch my shoes, pulling myself onto the wooden walkway.

The men are cheering now, so I'm able to creep over to my spot beside one of the windows undetected. Leaning against the cold stone, I steady my breath and start to listen.

Sam's is the first voice I hear. "There is good farmland in The Gift," he says. "Land that no one uses now. A dozen abandoned villages."

"And why do you think the farmers abandoned those villages?" Another voice, sounds like Bowen Marsh. "Because the wildlings raided them for years. Cut them down just like they did this boy's people!"

Several men roar their agreement. One thing is for sure – Jon was right about tensions being high. They sound less than pleased with him in there.

Thorne's nasty hiss cuts across the room. "We've been fighting them for thousands of years," he bites out. "They've slaughtered villages. They've slaughtered our brothers."

Jon's next words are so quiet I almost miss them. "And we've slaughtered theirs."

I falter at this, remembering my own words. Their kids had been killing ours for years. Sometimes we killed theirs. Could it be that he's taken our conversation in the commander's quarters to heart?

A chair scrapes the floor as someone rises to his feet. "I will follow you anywhere. You know that," says Edd. "But they killed Grenn, and they killed Pyp." Men mumble in agreement some more, while I frown at the name of my predecessor. If it weren't for the wildlings, Pyp would be working in the kitchens and singing in the halls instead of me, some strange girl they let in from beyond the Wall. I wonder if Thorne and his allies are thinking about that too. "They killed fifty of our brothers. I can't forget that. I can't forgive it."

I press my lips together, thinking of the hatred I saw in the eyes of the people from Districts 1 and 2 during my Victory Tour. Glimmer's family. Marvel's. Clove's and Cato's. They let me through their gates, even though I killed their children, but only because Snow commanded it. Though they were forced to accept it, even embrace it, I'm quite certain they wanted me dead. I feel sure things will be no different for the Night's Watch with the wildlings.

"You were at the Fist of the First Men," Jon responds. "If we abandon them, you know what they become. We can learn to live with the wildlings, or we can add them to the army of the dead. Whatever they are now, they're better than that." He pauses, and I can't help but edge closer to peek through the window as much as I dare. The men are starting to turn in their seats and grumble loudly to each other, so Jon, already standing behind the large council table, leans forward and silences them with a shout. "We need to remember who the real enemy is!"

Hearing what are undeniably my own words ringing through the dining hall causes me to release a sharp breath that's been trapped inside my throat for I don't even know how long. In the quiet that follows Jon's outburst, it might as well have been a pin dropping. Not loud enough that I'm sure I'll hear all the chairs inside scooting out at once, but still risky on my part. Cringing, I duck away from the window and press myself against the wall while clamping a hand over my mouth.

As angry clamoring starts up inside, most assuredly related more to Jon's offenses than to mine, I lower my hand from my mouth and shift my gaze to the window. Almost immediately, I lock eyes with someone, and my heart leaps to my throat before I realize it's Davos Seaworth. We stare at each other for all of three seconds. Then, satisfied that he's found the source of the noise, he moves away from the window.

"Hear something, Ser Davos?" Stannis's impassive voice drifts through the window.

"It's an ancient castle, Your Grace," Davos replies. "The winds blow and the floorboards creak like an old man's knees. No wonder they say it's haunted."

Well, I didn't creak any floorboards, so it's safe to say Ser Davos is covering for me. But this is as good a time as any to clear out while everyone's arguing amongst themselves. I ditch my compromised hiding spot and retrieve my shoes, then rejoin Gilly and follow her to the kitchens. Hobb is still in the meeting, but the meals schedule won't change so he'll expect us to get things started for him. Ironic that they're debating the rights of wildlings in that dining hall while one true wildling and an alleged one work away in the kitchens making sure they all stay fed.

I also see the irony in telling Gilly what they were talking about in there, after what happened in the library between Jon and me, but he did say to keep it quiet "until then," and Sam's probably going to tell her later anyway. As we work, my thoughts stray to what Jon said during the meeting. So quick to jump to conclusions and distrust me, and yet… it almost feels like he's taking my advice. Bringing the wildlings to our side, or this side of the Wall, not fighting them anymore but shielding them from the true enemy.

Maybe I'm thinking too highly of myself, maybe he would have done it otherwise. He loved that wildling girl, Ygritte, and on the night of the execution, he showed Mance mercy. His humanity towards the wildlings precedes me. Still, my words affected him, or else he wouldn't have used them so passionately. And now a lot of the men here are furious.

Even Olly, who trudges into the kitchens half an hour later to fetch Jon's lunch for him, is prickly and sullen. He avoids Gilly completely but gives me a sour look whenever I dare hand him something or point him somewhere. Where in Jon's eyes there was an emotion that I still can't discern, in Olly's eyes there is only pure, unadulterated distrust. It's not shocking, but he used to be getting better about it once he saw that Jon trusted me, even listening to my songs with a smile. Now, after the whole mess with the Night's Watch meeting, the skepticism of my identity has come back in full force. He spits out a gruff thank you and storms off with the food.

Maybe Hobb anticipates a lot of that in store for us, because he sends Gilly to bring Maester Aemon his lunch and suggests I go hunt now that there are men at the gate to raise it for me. I obey without a second thought, glad for the chance to clear my head.

Out beyond the Wall, there's no smell of men's sweat, no loud sneers about Jon and the wildlings, just the scent of trees and a crisp winter wind. I take my time in these woods that I have claimed for myself, following tracks and even journeying to the lake to fish. As I linger by the breathtakingly green water, a memory drifts back to me from the library. One of the things I said to Jon. When the time comes that I've overstayed my welcome here...

I know I said I'd rather go south, but I can't help thinking of the river – the Milkwater, the maps called it – and the cave I would find if I followed it north again. The temptation I feel is strong, to go back there, to have a hot bath, to help release the drone when it arrives and spend the night. But it's hours away from here, and they'll be expecting me back before nightfall with...

My trail of thought slows, and I frown. No, Hobb sent me out on a hunt. He didn't say how long it had to be. I could cover more ground this way. I've been staying within close range of the Wall and Mance's former camp site for two weeks. It would serve the Night's Watch well if I spread out. And I'm not even part of the Watch, so what do I owe them? Nothing I haven't already given them. I can leave when I want. I'll come back when I want. If I want.

Though Buttercup is still there, along with my things in my room. That should be enough assurance that I intend to return. I feel bad at the thought of making Shireen or Sam and Gilly worry, but it might not be a bad idea to get away for a day while the wildling tension is at its peak. I'll come back with a good haul and remind the more resentful half of the Night's Watch just how useful I am to them.

My mind made, I pick up my things and set out, saving the two fish I already caught for my own dinner I'll be having at the cave tonight. I'd like to venture back to Mance's old camp to borrow some furs to sleep in, but I know this would just delay my arrival time and bring me closer to Castle Black, which is sure to make me lose my nerve. Though sleeping in just my winter coat is not ideal, considering I may need it to dry off after my bath, I push on. If I'm lucky, or desperate, I can kill something near the cave and take its pelt.

I follow the river west, staying close to it, but slink through the trees with my bow in case something approaches for a drink. The woods are mostly quiet, save for a few birds, so I make good time reaching the fork in the river even though I keep an eye out for tracks. There's also no Buttercup I have to keep in my line of sight. I wonder if he'll feel betrayed, somehow sensing I went back to his lion's den without him. Oh, well. I'm sure Shireen's arms will make up for it tonight. She'll keep him so cozy that he probably won't realize I'm gone.

The Night's Watch will, or they already have, because supper has passed by the time I locate the right rock structure by the river, the sun long since gone down. They'll have to sing their own songs tonight, if the dining hall isn't still too rowdy after the announcement Jon made today. The only music I hear when I set foot inside the cave is the steady rush of the waterfall as it spatters against the rocks.

After letting Beetee know I've arrived, I go out to set some snares and bring back wood for a fire. I get the fish cooking and attempt to arrange a makeshift bed out of small branches shaved from evergreen and conifer trees. It's no insulated sleeping bag but it'll have to do. Once the fish has settled my growling stomach, I double check that my camera is off but my earpiece is still on for alerts from Beetee, then ditch my clothes by the fire and plunge into the pool's beckoning waters.

When I emerge, shaking out my hair and wiping at my eyes, I look all around the cave, because something feels different. It's not the lack of soaked cat glaring at me from the rocks. It's not the beauty of the waterfall, or the glorious heat of the pool soothing my skin and kissing my scars. Something else is not the same. Maybe it's me.

I try to ignore it, breathing in the steam as I splash and soak and revel in my vacation. But my thoughts keep dragging me back to Castle Black, back to everything that I've chosen not to deal with for tonight. Like the weirdness in the library this morning. I'm up to my shoulders in the hot spring, yet I can still feel the frost in Jon's eyes as if he were in this cave with me right now. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around myself and sink deeper into the water, forcing myself to think of other things, but it's too late. I've already invited him in.

The bizarre thing is that it's such a stark contrast to the way we spoke to each other last night. To go from delicately folding my fingers over the pearl in my palm, and respecting my secrets while sharing one of his own, to acting like I killed his direwolf the moment he overheard the mere mention of Hardhome… How did I manage to offend him to this extent? This has got to be a new kind of record with me.

A few more minutes of decompressing in the pool earns me a clearer head, making room for reason. It's likely that the stress of the impending meeting was what put Jon on edge, and he wasn't expecting to already hear Hardhome as a topic of conversation when he came to fetch Sam. He did warn me last night that tensions were going to be high in Castle Black surrounding the meeting; clearly, that had included himself.

Of course, there's still the possibility that a betrayal of trust is a real dealbreaker with him. And I may not have told Sam and Gilly about his plans, but I did tell them something equally important. Something I haven't even entrusted to Jon. No wonder he suspected something. I'm willing to bet that the look on my face when he walked in was inescapably incriminating.

Maybe I should have told him by now. He may have said that it doesn't matter how I got here, but we still could've avoided… whatever that was from earlier. I could have told him my plans with the drone. And then he would be able to guess where I've gone, if the thought even has time or room to cross his mind tonight with all the unrest going on amongst the Night's Watch brothers.

Even if he didn't believe me, what else would he do except send me away? He doesn't believe in witch burnings, but a mad girl with a bow could be a danger to his men. If it came to that, I'd take it as an opportunity to see more of Westeros. Or just come back here, hide away in this beautiful place where not even the White Walkers would find me.

It sounds like a dream, spending my days in someplace so picturesque and untouched by the horrors of both worlds. But as I give my surroundings another appraising glance, the thought fills me with a wistful sadness. Without Buttercup for companionship, or even the memory of Peeta, this cave is more lonesome than I remembered. It's lovely, it's idyllic, but the ghosts of secret romances weigh more heavily on me tonight, sinking me deeper into the waters of a pool still fit for two.

That's what's different this time. I can't feel Peeta here with me. I've barely thought of him since I arrived. Did a part of me think coming back to this cave would be like coming back to Peeta? Or did that not even cross my mind either, and this was all just me running away to be alone with my thoughts?

Well, here I am. Alone. In a steaming spring that begs for the company of someone else. Closing my eyes, I breathe in deeply and make a feeble attempt to summon Peeta again.

Instead, I picture Jon Snow staring back at me.

With a ragged gasp, I blink three times and try to shake off the mental image. Blame my brain for having his face be so much closer to the surface than Peeta's in my memories. Again, I hug my arms around my chest, rubbing my hands up and down the burn scars on my upper arms. Is this what I want him to see? A fire-mutt hiding in the bath, shriveling up what's left of her skin? No. I am being ridiculous.

I press myself against the rocks, trying to get my thoughts back on track as I watch the waterfall rain down. I imagine instead that I am at Castle Black again, in the Lord Commander's quarters, telling him the full truth. That I come from another world. That I stepped into a portal of shimmering energy in Panem, and mere moments later I was in Westeros, beyond the Wall, materializing out of thin air just like the parachutes Beetee sends me. Who's Beetee, he might ask? Oh, he's a friend in Panem I still talk to. Sometimes he says things in my ear.

Hypothetical Jon gives me a long, hard look. "I think you should leave."

All right, maybe he wouldn't do that. Or he would, but not so harshly, because obviously I need the kind of mental help that Maester Aemon is ill-equipped to provide. But him telling me to go, me packing up my stuff and walking through the gate… the idea upsets me more than it should. Benjen's secret I have kept quiet at his request, if only to spare his nephew's feelings and keep him from chasing after ghosts. But I am withholding my own truth for one purely selfish reason – I do not want to say goodbye to Jon Snow.

The realization catches me by surprise, and in my head I hasten to amend it. Not yet, at least, I tell myself. Not leaving it like that.

I know I can't stay at Castle Black forever. Even if I don't overstay my welcome, there's a whole world outside of it that I want to explore at some point. But I've seen maps, and this world is a big one. If I say goodbye to Jon, to Gilly and Sam and Shireen, I don't know when – or if – I'll ever get to see them again. In a matter of days, I'll have to find out, when Shireen departs with Stannis and his army to ride for Winterfell.

Another reason why I won't stay in this cave longer than one night. I only have a few of them left to play Crazy Cat and sing songs with this world's little duck (or little fawn, since her house sigil is a stag), so I'd better make up for tonight by making the most of them.

Then there's Jon, who will be leaving for Hardhome in the near future. Other than that, assuming he does return safely, his duty is to Castle Black, so I'm the only one who's going anywhere. Maybe if it's inevitable, I should just risk it and get it out of the way. If he's going to push me out, let him do it now, before either of us gets too attached. Though if I'm to the point of picturing him in the hot springs with me, it may already be too late.

Remembering the sensation of his hands clasping mine, I shudder as my imagination betrays me, brings that same sensation to my waist as if he's pulling me closer. I can't, no, won't indulge these fantasies. I easily replace the fascinated look in his eyes with the one I saw today and submerge myself, forcing the lingering feelings to fade beneath the surface as I hide from someone who isn't really here. This may be my best argument for telling him the truth when I get back. Nothing would deter these kinds of thoughts more effectively than a memory seared into my brain of Jon Snow staring at me like I'm disturbed.

I get out of the pool and dry myself by the fire, resolving to at least ease him into it. Tell him why I was really talking about Hardhome, about the drone and where it came from and what it's doing. Then I dress and try to get some sleep, prompted by Beetee after he admits he's still working on it.

Maybe an hour or two later, I wake to an alert from Beetee telling me the drone is ready to come through. Rubbing my eyes, I step out of the cave and listen through the chirps of nocturnal creatures for the familiar chime. But I don't just hear it, I see it. As the chime cuts through the night air, lulling birds and insects into a confused silence, the parachute blinks with a helpful green light that beckons me to its location. I follow it out, making sure it doesn't drift into the Milkwater. It's a close call but the drone lands safely in the snow. Under careful instruction from Beetee, I free it from the parachute, inspect and activate it, and help him check the quality.

Per his words, everything seems to be in order. It's fully charged, in good condition, seems to be flying normally, but he's going to be giving it a low-flight test run within the vicinity for a bit before sending it on its journey west. When I ask him about sleep, he admits he'll be staying up for a while just to keep an eye on it, but it does have an autopilot function. Somewhat satisfied, I watch it take off, listening to the whir of its spinning blades until it fades on the air. Then I say goodnight to Beetee and head back towards the cave.

For a moment, I think I hear something else, and stop in my tracks so that the sound won't be muffled by my footsteps in the snow. I don't even know what the sound was, so I'm listening hard for an echo, a reminder. But the sound doesn't repeat.

"Have you seen anything yet, nearby? Movement?" I ask. Yes, the Capitol fixed my ear a long time ago, but there are still moments like these when I don't trust it.

"Nothing yet," Beetee confirms. "Why, did you hear something?"

I hesitate, even more anxious to return to my fire and my bed of branches. It may not have the comforts of my warm furs at Castle Black, but it's what I have to work with, and I need to get back to it soon if I plan on getting any rest at all before leaving at first light.

"It's nothing," I say. "Probably some animals I'll just find in my traps tomorrow morning."

With that, I retreat to my cave and settle into bed, blanketed by my winter coat. My thoughts want to race, but I let the rush of the waterfall calm me until my eyelids feel heavy. I'm back in our cave, Peeta's and mine, and the rain is lashing down on the arena, but inside this cave we are safe and sound. I hear those words in my father's voice and imagine him singing the song to me until I fall asleep.

The next thing I know, there's a voice calling out to me and it's not my father's. There is no melody, only Beetee's urgency bleating through the earpiece that's lying next to me. I have enough sense to pick it up and fit it into place, but I don't know what's going on, how long I've been out if at all, why he's so insistent to wake me up.

"I hear you," I answer him drowsily, adjusting my microphone with one hand and wiping the sleep from my eyes with the other. "What is it? White Walkers?"

"No, something else," Beetee says in a rush. "It moved too fast for me to see what it was. But it's big and it's headed your way. You might want to keep your weapons handy."

I sit up straighter and glance across the pool, where my bow and sheath of arrows are propped up against a tall rock structure. It would have been better if I had slept with them by my side, safe from thieves, but I didn't exactly expect to be found. To be honest, I still feel safe in my hiding place so long as I don't make any noises, most of them already muted by the waterfall, but I know I'd better go get my weapons anyway. I stand up and move quietly over the rocks, minding my step on the slippery surface. I'm listening, trying to hear anything over the splashing water, but so far all is silent.

When I make it to my things without noise, or a disastrous misstep resulting in me stumbling into the hot spring, I release a low exhale and slide the strap of my sheath onto my shoulder. I bend to pick up my bow, and that's when I hear a strange rumble. Long and deep, like resonant thunder.

A storm? Here, where I've only seen snowfall? No, that doesn't seem right. I've heard of thundersnow, but it's a rare thing. I need to see this for myself. Caution tells me to ask Beetee, since he can see what's out there, but I don't dare speak in case I am wrong. I move slowly towards the entrance, step after step, breathing as softly as possible, searching for more telltale sounds.

The rumble comes again, closer. My heart thuds in response while the cave gives an echo. I should go back but my curiosity will not allow it, begging an answer. Approaching the wide, open mouth of the cave, I come to a stop and squint speculatively into the darkness of night.

The darkness gives another growl, and I see two large, glowing eyes leering back at me.

Chapter Text

As a cloud of disbelief escapes my lips, I step backward into the cave, and the creature steps forward. I step again and it does too, like we are bound together by an invisible tether.

With each step, it reveals more of itself in the moonlight. This is a cat, that much is certain, with a face like a cougar's but a much bigger body. It looks hungry, not just in the eyes but around the ribcage. It has a beautiful, sleek, thick black coat that hides it well, but I know a starving animal when I see it. The white stripes and markings in its black fur almost give it the appearance of a mockingjay. But a mockingjay doesn't have claws like that, or sharp teeth to bare at its prey as it growls again.

Blood paints its teeth and the fur around its mouth, suggesting a fresh kill of something small. Whatever it was, I don't think it was enough to fill an empty stomach. Still moving backwards, I carefully reach over my shoulder for an arrow. The cat notices the movement and its growl turns into a louder warning. Its tail lashes from side to side.

With the size of this thing, one arrow is not going to be enough. But I don't have a choice any more than I have time to hesitate. I arm my bow but barely manage to fire before the cat lunges at me with a furious scream unlike any other. The arrow pierces its shoulder and it screams again, this time from pain. I take my chance and spin around, sprinting deeper into the cave.

Maybe I should've ducked around it and run outside where I wouldn't be cornered, but I'm sure it knows those woods, has stalked them in the night a thousand times. I may be fast but I wouldn't be able to outrun it for long. My best chance is to make it face me down here.

I don't get much of a head-start. It streams down the slope like the tide of black matter from the Capitol, condensed into something nimble and shrieking, a shadow mutt with claws designed to disembowel me. I shoot another arrow at it, but miss in my haste to turn back around and keep running. Or maybe it grazes the skin, because I hear another bloodcurdling cry from behind.

I dart through the waterfall, daring to hope that it shares Buttercup's hatred of getting wet. It must barely faze the beast, because I hear the curtain of water interrupted a second later as it pounces through without hesitation.

A shower is a paltry price for my blood. But what about a bath?

Desperate, I make a sharp turn and stumble across the stones that border the hot spring. The cat follows, snarling, and I turn sharply again, rounding the hot spring while staying near the edge. I manage not to slip on the wet rocks, but the cat is not so lucky, the momentum of the turn dragging its body into the pool. If any sound that this creature makes is even remotely comparable to its chilling scream, it's the frenzied raking of its claws against the rocks as it struggles to correct itself before sliding into the pool with a tremendous splash.

I stop and whirl towards my attacker, but the roiling waters haven't swallowed it completely. It must've indeed caught itself in the fall and is already clawing its way back up, spitting and screeching feline obscenities at me. Backing up gingerly, I reach for another arrow, almost faltering at the thought of having to drag an enormous wet carcass from the springs. Lucky for me – or perhaps not so lucky – it gets out fast, shaking itself off indignantly.

For a moment I'm foolish enough to believe it will do as Buttercup would and dive around me, yowling in shame. But no, the loathing in this cat's eyes runs deeper than a bitter old mouser with a kittenhood vendetta. It's not disdain that fuels the growl rumbling through its throat. This one is out for blood.

We attack almost synchronously. At the first hint of movement, I nock my arrow, which enrages the beast into pouncing. My arrow flies to meet it but I hardly register where the point pierces since I'm more fixated on the flurry of teeth and razor-sharp claws leaping right at my face. I lurch to the side with a gasp, dodging swiftly enough that I escape most of its wrath – except a searing pain signals that the cat has at least grazed me with a swipe of its paw, enough to slice through my coat and into my upper arm.

There's no time to inspect the wound, but it's almost certainly bleeding already. Clutching the spot where it scraped me, I race behind the waterfall, making another circuit around it and keeping close to the water's edge as I hurtle across the slick stone path between the waterfall and the spring. This time, I do slip, crashing forward and landing on my hands and knees. I don't go tumbling into the pool but there's a clatter and my bow almost does. I rescue it in time and scramble to my feet, prepared to turn and fire before my pursuer comes up and eats me from behind.

Until I lift my eyes, and it's waiting right in front of me.

It must've sensed my plan and, rather than chase me, decided to cut me off instead. It's too smart, but I'm still quick. Maybe I should aim for the brain. Moving fast, I reach into my quiver for another arrow – but my fingers grasp at nothing.

Nothing. An empty quiver. My heart stumbles like I might as well have fallen into that pool. Knowingly, I shift my eyes to the ground, where I find all my arrows scattered among the rocks and awkwardly sticking out of cracks and wedges. Whether I escape into the safety of the spring, or go for my arrows, it's all a matter of which one of us can lunge first…

I hear a growl. Low, long, and menacing. It echoes from closer to the entrance, which means it's not coming from the cat. At first I think with a numb sense of dread that there are more, this one's called for backup. And then he appears, prowling around the corner, big and white and bristling.

"Ghost," I whisper in disbelief. The relief I feel at the sight of him is instantly overshadowed by a fresh layer of panic. What is he doing here? He can't be here…

The cat, hearing him, turns slightly and growls back. It may not rival the direwolf in size, but in ferocity they might just be perfectly matched. Ghost growls louder, approaching slowly and baring his teeth.

This is an insult that cannot be tolerated. Snarling with rage, the cat turns its back on me and charges at Ghost, who meets it head-on with a vicious bark and a snap of his jaws.

The screaming and barking manages to snap me out of my trance. Taking advantage of the distraction, I swoop and snatch up the nearest arrow as fast as I can, load my bow, and aim at the battle of black and white fur. Fear and blood slick my hands, but I can't let Ghost take this attack for me.

He throws the cat back against one of the tall rock structures, dazing it for a moment and then making it angrier. It shakes itself off, rears up to strike a dagger-clawed blow – and that's when my arrow gets it right through the eye. It screams, lashing at the air blindly as it lands on its front paws with a stumble. One last shot to the head ends its fight.

Once I'm sure it won't be getting up again, I approach Ghost, dropping my bow to look him over for wounds.

"Hey, boy. You okay?" I ask, stroking his fur. He's panting from exertion, but I don't see anything too terrible. It was lucky that I acted as quickly as I did. I reward him with some affectionate ear scratches. "What are you doing here, huh? How did you find me?"

The direwolf whines in answer, his normally fierce red eyes inquisitive as he regards me with what looks like genuine concern. He sniffs at me and nudges my injured arm, but I'll worry about that in a moment. If Ghost is here beyond the Wall, that means someone must've opened the gate for him and let him out. To let him roam, or to find me? Why else would he have come here? Unless he was lured by the cat's screams, though I imagine such a sound would usually deter him. If I were him, I would've run in the other direction. But he came down here, as if tracking my scent. He protected me.

"Thank you," I say, giving him a little more love. He looks at me, then the carcass, and licks his chops.

After I contact Beetee to let him know what he missed, he sends me an extra game bag containing gauze for my arm. I clean and tightly wrap the wound, the best I can do for it right now, then get all my arrows back in the quiver and retrieve my knife to get to work on the pelt. I say it better with meat, letting Ghost have what he wants from the carcass. He's earned it, and besides that, I'm still not going to be able to fit it all in both game bags anyway.

Though Ghost's assistance speeds up the butchering process, we both end up giving in to exhaustion. He curls up by the fire and lets me rest my head on his fur, a much bigger pillow than Buttercup. And going forward, should I choose to make a spontaneous trip to this cave again, I will have a fine black-and-white blanket waiting for me.

Thanks to my working late into the night, it's around mid-morning by the time I awake. So much for leaving at first light. I change my bandages while my breakfast cooks and Ghost helps himself to his own, then we head out. I can eat while I walk, and I don't want to keep Ghost out here any longer than he feels he has to be.

Checking my snares confirms a suspicion from last night. I've caught a couple of rabbits that I manage to stuff in my bags, but there's nothing but blood at the third snare, suggesting the cat found itself a free appetizer before discovering the entrée in the cave.

That's fine with me. I've already gotten my prize.

Ghost leads me southeast via shorter routes, so we make it to the lake sooner than I expected. It's a relief, too, because I'm feeling the ache in my legs and knees from the running and tripping last night and I'm sure it must be slowing me down some. Even so, I keep up with him, and he never gets too far ahead, checking behind him now and then with an expectant tail wag.

He's a good companion, devoted and dependable. No wonder Jon cares for him.

Finally the Wall comes into sight, and once we step out of the forest, we pick up the pace as we make for the gate together. It starts to rise after we've made it more than halfway, and I gesture for Ghost to go ahead. He eagerly lopes toward the tunnel, with me trailing at a brisk walk after him. Going by the amount of daylight we still have, which disappears behind me as the gate lowers with a rusty creak, there's still an hour or two before nightfall. We've made good time.

The first thing I see when I walk through the next gate is Jon Snow, crouched down at Ghost's level and saying something to him as he rubs at his ears. He glances over at me and stands up, striding to meet me in the middle. Though he looks just as tired as I am, relief smooths out his features and I detect a hint of sheepishness in his eyes.

"Was worried they wouldn't let you through," Jon admits.

I frown, shifting the quiver strap on my arm, which makes me wince a little. "Isn't that your call?"

"Not if they neglect to inform me of your return," he points out, and then I understand. The men operating the gate could've easily refused to raise it for me, pretended I wasn't even there. "I don't suppose that was the case last night. The men I put on watch duty all like you. I made sure of that."

Yet here he stands, and I can't help but wonder how that came to be. If he requested that someone fetch him the minute we got back, if he still had his doubts and watched for me himself, if he's just been standing by—

"Like a dog, waiting at the door for his master to come home." Thorne's sneer assaults my ear from nearby. I look to the right and find him watching us with those cold, beady eyes of his.

"More like the master of the house waiting to let the cat back inside after it's finished massacring the wildlife," I say, and shake the game bag on my good arm before lifting up one of the rabbits. "Look, I even brought you a gift."

Thorne stares back, unimpressed. "Are you going to take it in your mouth and spit it at our feet?" he asks.

You'd like that, wouldn't you, is my first thought. But after exchanging a glance with Jon, I match Thorne's deadpan expression. "I'm going to take it to the kitchens," I say, putting the rabbit back in the bag. "I thought you might want it cooked first."

Jon stifles a chuckle, but some of the other men within earshot don't bother and snicker appreciatively. Rolling his eyes with another sneer, Thorne slinks off to go be an ass somewhere else.

Once he's gone, I turn back more fully to Jon, who is now likely waiting on an explanation. It occurs to me that I could give him one. The one that involves a drone from another world, sent here by the same inventor who sent me, released into Westeros and now soaring through the sky as it scours the lands beyond the Wall for the army of the dead. Which will most assuredly make it sound like a bird, so I'll have to tell him that no, it's not a living thing, but it can still fly and see things and feed us information, and…

An exhausted sigh leaks through my lips. "Wandered farther out than usual yesterday," I say, feeling preemptively defeated. "It got dark, so I thought it'd be safer to find shelter and spend the night."

Jon nods thoughtfully. "That was probably for the best," he says, and tries on a weak half-grin. "But we could've used your songs at supper."

"Things were really tense and quiet?" I ask knowingly.

He scoffs in confirmation. "Let's just say, your absence was noticed," he says, after giving the others in the courtyard a brief cursory glance.

Before I can reply, I hear a delighted voice call out my name. "Katniss!"

I turn, and Shireen is coming at me as fast as she dares run with Buttercup in her arms. "Hey, princess," I say, adding in the title when I see Selyse watching from a distance. "I missed you yesterday. Did you keep him safe for me?"

Shireen adjusts a blasé-looking Buttercup. "Buttercup's fine. It's you we were worried about," she tells me. Restless, the cat wriggles to get free, and when Shireen obediently lets him down, he sniffs me for a moment before growling and loping away. Somehow, I doubt that he's part of the 'we' in that equation. "Jon said you were probably avoiding the worst of the unrest about the wildlings. Then he said you might've left, but I didn't think so. I told him you wouldn't do that. Leave without saying goodbye."

"Of course not," I assure her. "I just strayed out kind of far. Had to stop and make camp. Didn't want to make the return journey in the dark." Then I add, "I'm sorry I wasn't here for dinner, though. I'll have to make up for it by teaching you a new song."

She shakes her head. "You were right to do that. Edd says there's all sorts of terrible things hunting beyond the Wall late at night." I roll my eyes and find Jon doing the same. Thank you, Edd, how very helpful... Without warning, Shireen flings her arms out and wraps me in a hug. "I'm just glad to see—"

Though I try to return it, I wince at the impact and don't cover it up in time. She notices and pulls away, studying me for a couple of seconds.

"You're hurt," she says softly. "What happened to your arm?"

Puzzled that she homed in on it so fast, I lift my injured arm to inspect it. The tear in my coat is conspicuous on its own, but one glance shows me a peek at the gauze underneath, and the red that has soaked through.

"It's nothing, just a scratch," I say, trying to downplay it with a little laugh. "Probably a good thing I didn't bring Buttercup with me, though. The cats out there? You make them pretty big in Westeros."

"A cat did that to you?" Shireen asks. "What kind of cat was it?"

"I don't know, the kind we're having for dinner," I say, and shrug, which is a mistake. Covering up another wince, I shift the game bags on my arms. "Speaking of which, I should get these to Hobb."

Jon frowns, his brow deeply furrowed as he glances from me to my arm. "I can bring them to Hobb. I think you should get that looked at. It may need stitching."

I know he's right, so I nod and thank him, carefully sliding the bags off my arms to hand over to him. The strap of one of the bags grates against the wound anyway, making me flinch. Shireen and Jon look more unnerved. "Is it that bad?" Shireen wants to know.

"It could've been worse," I tell her, forcing a confident grin. "You should've seen the claws on this thing. I'll never complain about Buttercup's puny needle nails again."

"I'll take you to Sam and Gilly. You can tell me all about your latest adventure beyond the Wall," says Shireen, leading me away by my good arm.

We cross the east courtyard to the maester's quarters and I regale her with the story of last night's game of cat and mouse, pausing only to go inside and greet Sam and Gilly, who look relieved to see me. Maester Aemon is still bedridden and can't stitch a wound like he used to, but Gilly offers to take a look at it while Sam tends to Aemon and Little Sam.

"That'll need stitching too," Gilly notes as I shrug out of my coat and sit down, pulling up my torn sleeve so she can see more of what she's dealing with here. The burn scars temporarily throw her for a loop, and she gives me an appraising look before turning it back to the wound. "The cat – what did it look like?"

I describe it to them, the large glowing eyes and the black and white stripes, and Shireen gives a gasp.

"You fought a shadowcat?" she breathes out, wide-eyed. Gilly also looks floored, abruptly pausing the unraveling of my gauze.

"Is that what it's called?" I ask, searching their startled faces. "I ran from it, mostly."

"I've read that shadowcats can disembowel you with a single swipe of their paw," Shireen says in a reverent whisper. After Gilly finishes taking off the bandages, she touches my arm gently. "It must've only just grazed you."

"You were lucky," Gilly says, and it's the firm inflection in her voice that turns my gaze to her. She meets my eyes sternly before lowering them and cleaning the area around the wound. "Shadowcats can smell blood from six miles away. You can handle one, but you might've attracted more."

I refrain from shrugging, keeping perfectly still so Gilly can work on my arm. "I was lucky Ghost found me when he did," I say.

"When supper was over and you still weren't back, I started getting worried," says Shireen. "Jon said to give you another hour or two, but after that, he started asking the men at the gate some questions. Then I woke up close to midnight and they said there was no sign of you. Jon was worried too. He couldn't sleep either until he sent Ghost out to look for you."

"We were all worried," Gilly adds more firmly. "You're never out that late. You shouldn't wander so far from here alone. Not unless you don't plan on coming back." Her eyes and tone say never do it again.

For a moment, I'm thrown by her protectiveness. This must be what it's like to have a mother who's more overbearing. Then I remember Little Sam, probably sound asleep at Aemon's bedside. Little Sam, who she might have lost to the White Walkers if she hadn't made it to this side of the Wall.

"I won't," I say, and wince a little as she gets to work with the needle and thread. "It was a one-time thing."

"No it wasn't," Gilly says to my arm, and pulls the thread through. Once she's perfected the first stitch, she looks up at me knowingly. "Just give us fair warning next time."

I make it up to them by telling them more about Ghost's heroic arrival and diversion while Gilly finishes closing the wound. Shireen eagerly makes me retell the part where the shadowcat fell into the water, which makes Gilly crack a smile. Turns out killing one is a big deal, since they're dangerous and their pelts are expensive, so Gilly and Shireen agree not to spread my story around. They'll have fresh game for dinner tonight and that's all anyone really needs to know. Now that the air around here is thick with wildling hate, I'd like to draw even less attention to myself, though troubling the princess and the Lord Commander by staying out late hasn't done me any favors.

Later, after Shireen's gone to rejoin her mother, I'm helping Sam and Gilly tend to Maester Aemon when Olly comes in with a tray of food. He sets it on the little wooden table by his bed, backs away stiffly, then turns to me.

"The Lord Commander's asking for you," he says. "Said if you were still in here, to tell you to meet him in the commander's quarters when you get the chance."

Oh, great, I think, instantly remembering how we left things before my little excursion beyond the Wall. Visiting the commander's quarters to deliver letters is one thing. Being called there by the commander himself is another. "Did he mention what it was about?"

"Didn't say anything," Olly answers briskly. "Just asked me to send you." He turns for the door, then hesitates and gives me a pointed look. "And if I were you, I wouldn't keep him waiting much longer."

Chapter Text

The pale sky is starting to lose its grip on daylight as I climb the wooden staircase to the commander's quarters. Soon the sounds of clanging metal will fade as well, and the men will be emptying the courtyard to make way for the dining hall, where I expect I'll be singing tonight. As I was passing through, I heard one of the men saying, "The Songbird of Castle Black returns," and a few snickering, but I ignored them. Others looked hopeful or nodded at me. Even in this world, I am a divisive matter. I stop at the door, take a deep breath, and do my short prelude knock before going inside.

When I enter his quarters, Jon is sitting at his desk, quill scratching away at something. He glances up from the parchment and the scratching dies down.

"Lord Commander," I say tentatively.

He sets the feather quill aside and nods at me. "How's your arm?" he asks, quieter and calmer than I expected.

"Fine," I say, rotating it and massaging the wounded area on instinct. "Gilly did a decent job sewing it up. Stitches just like Mother used to make."

His mouth gives a little twitch, accompanied by the smallest scoff. I don't think my facetiousness fazes him anymore. "Good."

A few seconds of silence pass. I feel each one in my chest, expanding with tension like they might as well be minutes. I'm still not entirely sure what I'm doing here, and he's looking at me and pursing his lips like he doesn't know either. "Olly said you wanted to see me," I remind him.

Jon blinks once and gets up from his chair, wandering into the back area where I can see his cloak hanging from the wall. He emerges with the two empty game bags, bringing them over to me. "Thought you might want these back," he says.

Nonplussed, I accept them from him. "Right. Thanks," I say, barely masking my confusion. He could've given them to Olly to bring to me. Or he could've just left them with Hobb, as I would've assumed he did if I never got them back. "You asked me here just for these? He made it sound a lot more pressing than that."

"Did he?" Jon asks, surprised.

"Yeah, something like 'if I were you, I wouldn't keep him waiting much longer,'" I say ominously, raising my eyebrows. "Guess it's back to 'suspicious wildling girl' for me."

Jon shakes his head with a little grin. "Buttercup turned up his nose at you when you arrived as well. Doesn't change the fact that he was looking around for you at supper, or asking for you last night when you hadn't returned."

"Asking for me?" I echo, smirking despite my doubt.

"He was very vocal," Jon says with a grin.

That, I can believe, which is a curious epiphany. When it comes to Olly, I'm a little more skeptical, so I take Jon's implications with a grain of salt. I have seen him looking my way when I'm spending time with Shireen, though I'm pretty sure it's the princess he's looking at. Even so, it's kind of funny to imagine both Olly and Buttercup yowling about my absence and then giving me the same cold shoulder upon my return.

"Actually, I…" says Jon, interrupting my thoughts. He paces over to the table in a few slow steps. "I also wanted to apologize for my behavior in the library yesterday. There was no good reason for me to speak so coldly to you."

This catches me off guard. Whatever I was expecting from him, it wasn't that. "I mean, I get it," I say, following, while still dumbfounded by the apology. "You heard me talking about Hardhome after you told me not to, so…" I give a half-shrug.

"Sam and Gilly already explained that to me. I didn't know what I heard," Jon counters. Turning to me, he sighs. "Forgive me. I let my emotions get the better of me."

Part of the downside of not forgiving people easily is that I'm terrible at accepting apologies. I don't know what to do when people mean them genuinely, as I can tell Jon does. I avoid his eyes and adjust the bag straps awkwardly. "I guess it just surprised me that you'd react so strongly to me telling Sam," I say. Which makes me feel guilty, remembering what else I've shared with him.

"To be honest, it wasn't Hardhome that affected me," Jon says. "I overheard more than that."

There's the distinct sensation of falling, like I've just slipped off the edge of the Wall. My eyes shoot up to meet his, wide and questioning despite my struggle not to panic. Again, I'm furiously trying to remember what else was said yesterday. "Does this have anything to do with you asking me about the Red Woman?" I venture carefully.

Jon looks a little thrown by my moment of obvious terror, but he recovers just as I have. "Yes and no," he says, and gives me a prodding look. "You mentioned a cave…?"

"Cave?" I ask. Now I'm lost. "What does that have to do with Melisandre?"

"In the library, you said, 'do you remember that cave,'" Jon answers, and my mouth falls open slightly as this jogs my memory. Now he's averting his eyes again, sending a brooding glance out the window. "That was one of the last things Ygritte said to me before she died. The Red Woman did the same thing here in this room a few days ago. 'You know nothing, Jon Snow.'" He scoffs, gripping the edge of the table for support. "I suppose, hearing something like that again, I got a little…"

"Paranoid?" I offer, and he looks over at me. Perhaps he's just unfamiliar with the word, but at the same time, saying it feels somewhat insensitive. "I would be too. I'm sure the Red Woman did it on purpose, she's quoted President Snow to me before…" I stop myself. I don't want to talk about Snow with him, and I already feel bad for dredging up painful memories. "I had no idea, really. I was just talking about one of the places where I made camp before I made it to Castle Black."

Jon's forehead wrinkles, and something flickers in his gray eyes as they lock onto mine. "Where was this cave?"

"A few hours from here," I tell him, bemused. "You follow the Milkwater west from the lake, and not that far from the fork is this cave with a hot spring and—"

"—a waterfall," Jon finishes for me.

My breath hitches in my throat. "Yes," I say slowly, searching his face.

He's trying to hide it, but the fact that he knows which one I'm talking about and he's upset again tells me one thing – it's the same cave. The one Ygritte spoke of before she died. I have never met this woman, and yet somehow, I keep finding ways to step on her toes.

To disguise my annoyance, I distract myself by running my fingers along the edge of the table and inspecting the tips for dust. "So, I take it that cave holds some kind of personal significance to the two of you?" I ask, and bite my lip to refrain from commenting that I didn't see their names on it. It's not like he's outright scolding or accusing me of anything. The only one being petty here is me.

If Jon has picked up on my abrupt change in attitude, he doesn't show it. In fact, when I idly glance back up, he's not even looking at me. His brow knits together like he's not sure if he should say what he says next. "It's… it's the place where Ygritte and I first…" he trails off.

For some reason, this vexes me further. First the whole unnecessary thing with him switching to "my lady," now this? "You can say 'kissed' around me, it's okay," I say impatiently. Besides, it's just another bizarre thing we have in common. "You told me about the Red Wedding the first night we met. I think I'm not too delicate to hear that you kissed your wildling girlfriend in a cave."

I'm pretty sure I took it too far, even before Jon's eyes shift back to mine. He stares hard at me under a furrowed brow, his expression odd and almost hesitant. His mouth parts briefly, but no words come out, he just closes it again and gives me a meaningful look.

It takes me a moment, as I'm both trying to make sense of it and getting irritated by the idea that he would think I'd care if he and Ygritte had some steamy first kiss under the waterfall. That's like me thinking he would care that my first kiss with Peeta – my many first kisses with Peeta – happened while we were hidden away in a cave of our own. We're both adults here, I don't think it's too scandalous even in the Night's Watch to talk about the first time we—

My thoughts screech to a halt. This world's cave flickers in my mind – beautiful, secluded, romantic. Thorne's words slither their way back into my memory.

Do you want to choose a man who has fought the wildlings all his life, or a man who makes love to them?

"Oh," I say, feeling stupid. The epiphany hits me again with more force and clarity, like an unexpected shove in the chest. "Oh. Wow. Different first. Got it. That's…"

I can feel my entire face flushing with embarrassment. And what's even worse, it's noticeable, judging by the swift transformation in Jon's expression from discomfort to amusement. A grin stretches across his lips before he can help it, if he even bothers to help it, and he actually laughs a little.

"What's that you were saying? About not being too delicate to hear it?" he teases, eyes crinkling with mirth as they shamelessly meet mine, which I'm sure are still wide with mortification.

No, that is very much not something we have in common. My experience in the arena's cave with Peeta, a few shared kisses and snuggling together in a sleeping bag for warmth, seem innocent and juvenile in comparison to the passion they shared in this one. And Jon must know it, because he's laughing at me just like Peeta did after Johanna's strip session in the elevator. Because I still can't fight the burning in my cheeks, can't ward off the resurgence of thoughts of Jon in that pool since he probably was in it with her, can hardly think of anything else except the very real possibility that I slept in the same spot where they were together.

Peeta was right. I am pure. Even compared to a man of the Night's Watch.

"Is that even allowed?" I ask, desperate to divert my thoughts as I pretend to be interested in the books and parchment on the table. "Or don't your vows cover that sort of thing?"

"It's not encouraged," Jon says, which I can tell is an understatement. "Though Sam would make the argument for it."

"Oh, I bet he would," I say with a lift of my eyebrows, earning a chuckle from Jon. "So, if Thorne knows about it, how come you got away with it?"

Jon scoffs again. "Make no mistake, he and Slynt wanted my head," he assures me, feigning the same interest in the parchment. "I told them the truth. I was bid by Qorin Halfhand to do whatever I had to to get the free folk to trust me."

"Whatever you had to?" I echo, snorting as I look back up at him. "Oh, I see. You were just following orders, huh? It was all part of the job, you didn't enjoy it at all—"

"Of course I enjoyed it," Jon interrupts, rolling his eyes. Then he realizes what he just blurted out and has the sense to look embarrassed.

Well, that definitely didn't do any favors for the thoughts I'm still trying to kick out of my head, but at least now I'm not the only one blushing. Biting down on my lip, I lower my gaze to the table again. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be teasing you about this," I say, and muster the courage to look back up. "You loved her. I know. Sometimes, you do things to survive, and then it becomes more than that. It becomes… real." At once, sewer Peeta's face flashes in my mind. Then it's just Jon before me, looking vaguely confused and thoughtful. "And I didn't mean to trespass on your and Ygritte's cave."

"It's all right, it doesn't belong to me," says Jon. "Besides, you couldn't have known."

"Yeah, but it holds that memory for you," I point out. "I mean, call me petty, but it would bother me if I learned that someone else was making use of…" I pause. The cave? The beach? Both places in the arenas, which are going to be destroyed. What's left of the 75th one, anyway. Then there's the rooftop of the Training Center, a good memory but not personal enough for me to care. What's left in Panem that would make me irrationally upset if intruded upon? "The woods, and the Meadow. Back in District Twelve," I finish.

"The woods?" Jon looks at me with exaggerated astonishment. "The Meadow?"

"It's just where we hunted!" I say defensively, matching his scandalized expression.

Jon laughs. "I'll never hear that song the same way again."

As much as I fight it, I laugh too, though I shake my head and make sure it holds a note of disgust. Which is a lot easier when I remember that the Meadow is now a mass grave. "Doesn't matter, anyway," I say. "I don't really plan on going back anytime soon."

"The cave, or District Twelve?" Jon asks.

"Either one," I say, and shrug, which is not a good move. Glancing down, I examine my arm, and memory strikes. "Except maybe the cave just one more time. Ought to go fetch the pelt of the thing that did this to me."

A pause from Jon. "You were there last night," he says. It sounds like both a statement and a question.

I look over at him, confused. There's a strange expression on his face. Not upset, but troubled, like he's trying to make sense of something in his head. "Yes," I say simply.

"That's very far away to hunt," he notes.

I start to shrug again, then think better of it and incline my head. "I liked it there," I mumble. At least, I used to. Now it'll be impossible to sit or sleep or bathe anywhere without wondering if that's where it happened between them. It was difficult enough pushing him out of my thoughts before I found out about this. But I can't exactly tell him that's the reason, so I add in, "Problem is, wild Westeros cats like it too. For all I know, that might've been its lair."

"The shadowcat," Jon says.

This gives me pause. The tone, the way he's staring at me… "How did you know it was a shadowcat?" I ask. Shireen wouldn't have told him. Is there only one species of dangerous big cat lurking the lands beyond the Wall?

His forehead wrinkles more deeply. "After Ghost left, I dreamed that…" He frowns, cuts his eyes to the side. "I thought it was a dream."

I don't say anything, only stare at him to silently urge him on. If he knows about the shadowcat…

"I dreamt through Ghost's eyes last night," he says. "I was in the cave. I thought I only dreamt of it because you mentioned it, but…" He pauses, giving a slight shake of his head like he's doubting himself. "There was a shadowcat, had you cornered, and… it had injured you." His gaze falls to my wrapped wound. "It's the same arm."

"Are you saying that you… inhabited your direwolf's body last night?" I ask, my thoughts beginning to race again.

"I know it sounds…" He trails off, shaking his head again and making a face. "You asked him what he was doing there—"

"No, I believe you," I say quickly. I'd be a hypocrite not to, and it's not the weirdest thing I've come across in this world, despite Jon finding it irregular too. That's not the part I'm concerned about. "How long were you in there? What else did you see?"

Jon blinks with startled comprehension. "Nothing I shouldn't have," he assures me.

I already know this, since I wouldn't have gone into the pool in front of Ghost even if I'd had time to, but I tease him about it anyway. "Good," I say. "Because if you knew about this ability beforehand, I'd start to question your motive for sending him after me."

He manages a small, bashful grin, but averts his eyes again like even the suggestion embarrasses him. Instantly, I feel a twinge of regret. Jon's an honest guy, very earnest; there's only one reason he would send Ghost to track me down, and here I am, making jokes about his honor.

"Sorry for disappearing like that. I should've…" I pause to attempt a light shrug, "gone back and let someone know what I was doing first. It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment decision. Didn't mean to worry anyone."

"There's no need to apologize. You didn't need permission," Jon says, then appears to reconsider. "But after last night, I'd be more comfortable if you don't go alone the next time you venture farther out than Whitetree. Bring someone with you, even if it's Ghost."

I nod, accepting this. As conditions go, it's plenty fair. Besides, I'm not ready to encounter another shadowcat just yet. Another thought occurs to me, and I laugh to myself as I turn and lean back against the table. "Feels like we're always apologizing to each other."

Jon chuckles too, matching my stance as he settles next to me. "I've noticed that, too," he admits. "Especially when there's nothing to apologize for."

"Or on someone else's behalf," I say, looking over at him. I haven't forgotten what he may or may not have read about Snow. Maybe I'm not the only one who's painfully aware they're standing in another person's shadow.

My suspicions seem further confirmed when Jon's smile dissolves into a more pensive expression, as if mulling over a memory. "There was something else," he says after a moment. When I give him a questioning look, he goes on, "In the… dream. I thought I heard… Were you talking to someone?"

"Talking to someone?" I feel my stomach do a flip as my heart starts to race.

Yes, I remember now. I remember how I started to turn my microphone on until Ghost's unyielding stare froze my fingers. I remember how I told him I was going to check to see if there was anything else out there, and Ghost tried to follow me, but I told him to stay. And he seemed to listen, but when I came back with the gauze and second game bag, I remember finding him waiting a little closer than where I'd left him.

"You went up to the entrance," Jon recalls. "And then it sounded like you were saying something. Who were you talking to?"

I open my mouth, searching for words. Damned wolves and their heightened sense of hearing… This is fate's way of calling my bluff. We're alone, we're on good terms again, and he's insinuating he can possess his direwolf's body in his dreams so he's really in no position to call me crazy.

Just tell him about Beetee, I order myself. You can tell Sam and Gilly, so why not Jon?

Silently taking a deep breath and gathering my courage, I turn slightly and lift my eyes to Jon's. A dark, serious gray, familiar and curious yet questioning. Eyes that invite the truth. My friend, I want to say. But a gate crashes down inside my chest, and what comes out of my mouth is: "My father."

Jon blinks in surprise. His face clears, but then a fresh line of confusion creases his brow. I'm sure he's trying to remember, just as I am, what I've told him about my father. Certainly that he is dead, or at least not in Westeros.

"He wasn't really there," I tell him. The lie has escaped my lips, I might as well commit to it. "I just… We used to hunt together. Or, he brought me along and showed me how. Back in Twelve, he used to take me into the woods with him, show me which plants were edible and how to shoot an arrow. I was only eleven when he died, but he taught me almost everything I know." I start wringing the straps of a game bag in my hands. "I thought he would've liked to hear about his daughter bringing down a cat that size."

His features smooth over with understanding, a sympathetic smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Explains why you like being out there in that forest so much," he notes.

I swallow down the guilt and mask it as grief, which isn't hard. I've even managed to convince myself. "It's not the same without the mockingjays, but it'll do," I say. "He used to sing to them, and after a polite pause, they'd always sing back. He had a voice that made all the birds stop to listen."

"Sounds like you take after him quite a bit," Jon says kindly. His eyes flicker to the mockingjay pin. "Is that why you chose it as your sigil?"

"Among other reasons," I mutter, discreetly shifting my hair to cover it up while adjusting the game bag on my shoulder. I'm an open book, I literally wear my secrets on my sleeve, and yet I still can't explain to this direwolf-inhabiting eavesdropper the concept of multiverse travel and communication. "I should take these to my room."

He nods, dismissing me, and I make my retreat.

The lie follows me out the door. It trails me across the courtyard to my room. Catches in my throat when I sing at dinner. Dances around my head like the flashlight beam over Buttercup's when Shireen and I play Crazy Cat that night. It makes my blankets itchy as I toss and turn, trying to fall asleep, and hovers above me like a dark cloud when I feed the ravens their breakfast the next day.

If I was going to be this tired in the morning anyway, I should have just taken the time to tell Jon the truth. That I was talking to a friend, that I am from another world and this friend is the connection I still have to it. It would have been so easy to just take out the devices and demonstrate them to him as I did with Sam and Gilly, or it should've been. So why couldn't I do it? What happened to resigning myself to his reaction and giving him the option to push me away, if that's what it's going to come to?

The anonymity has always been the main allure of living in a new world, getting a fresh start, but before this, I was just carefully omitting some truths. Now I am actively deceiving him. Though I can't say I expected Jon to accidentally possess his direwolf's body, and in fairness neither did he. Haymitch and Peeta would've been impressed with me for lying off-the-cuff like that, but personally, it just makes me need to freeze for a minute in the middle of the ravenry and clutch the edge of the wooden table while my stomach roils with guilt.

Because it's not just the lie. It's the fact that I've told him about nearly everything else that's personal to me. I've let him believe that I do trust him, and in turn, he has trusted me. So why shouldn't he take my word for it when I tell him the truth about Panem?

Maybe I'll wait until Stannis leaves with his army to tell Jon. That way, if he tells me to go, Buttercup and I might be able to accompany Shireen. Keep her safe until we have to part ways, if we must. Jon will be leaving for Hardhome shortly afterward, anyway, and I'm still debating whether Castle Black will be safe for me without him. I'd probably be the one protecting Sam and Gilly, instead of the other way around. If I hear something from Beetee about the location of the White Walkers while I'm with the Baratheons, I can do like Westeros does and send a raven. Or maybe I can ask Beetee for extra communication devices so I can contact Sam and Gilly, if not Jon himself.

I try to contact Beetee about it but get no answer from him. Maybe it's too early or he's away from his workshop. Instead, I mentally go over what I'm going to say to Jon, as well as the details of my backup plan. Too caught up in my thoughts, I don't notice a non-raven presence in the rookery with me until a male voice calls my name.

"Katniss!" Edd says, making me jump and almost topple the bowl of meat bits.

"What?" I groan, rescuing the bowl while trying to sound more irritated and less like he's shaken me out of an emotional crisis.

Edd looks entertained by this for a moment, but quickly regains his composure with a lift of his eyebrows. "There's someone at the gate, says he knows you," he gets out in a haste. "Says he's from Panem."

My mind, still reeling from inner conflict and Edd's sneak attack, takes more than a few seconds to comprehend this. "From Panem?" I repeat dumbly. Either that's a lie, or Beetee isn't answering because he went through the portal himself. And I don't understand the reasoning behind either of those possibilities. "Did he say anything else? What does he look like?"

Edd gives a light, scoffing laugh. "Prettier than the Lord Commander," he says with a smirk.

My head spins some more. This is not Beetee we're talking about here. "That's impossible…" I say, tossing aside the feed bowl and sweeping past Edd toward the stairs.

I fly down the steps, hearing the wind and my heartbeat in my ears and, faintly, Edd's footsteps coming down after me. Making a couple of shortcuts and turns I already know by heart, I storm across the east courtyard toward the Wall passage, where a few men are already crowded around this visitor, obscuring him from view. I only have to dart around a couple of Night's Watch brothers, both of them Thorne lackeys. The rest make a path for me, sensing that I will mow them down since my mind is currently occupied.

If not Beetee, then who? Who else knows I'm here, knows about the portal? Who else from Panem would go through that portal to find me?

As I close in on the small crowd of onlookers, it parts for me, revealing the answer. The only answer. The one I should've suspected since the rookery. A man, carrying a pack, a crossbow, and a game bag, draped in furs but wearing a coat he only could've gotten from Panem. Snowflakes falling on his dark hair and olive skin. Seam gray eyes, chastened yet firm as they lock on mine.

Indignation and disbelief clog my throat, but I manage to choke out his name. "Gale…?!"

Gale smiles faintly at me, like he's had time to anticipate this exact reaction.

"Hey, Catnip," he says.

Chapter Text

Betrayed. That's how I feel when I see none other than my ex-best friend Gale, not only existing in Westeros but daring to stand here in front of me. And not one word of warning from Beetee, who was probably too busy directing Gale to Castle Black like the backstabber he is. I should've known, since they were just such good friends during the war, but I never thought…

Chapter Text

Once I'm alone, I fling myself onto the bed face-first, cushioning my fall with the shadowcat pelt, and groan into it loudly for few seconds. Then I push myself off the mattress and grab the spare hunting bag to store the skin for safekeeping. It seems a shame to hide something so beautiful, but I can't take any chances knowing that my room has already been broken into before. By Sam, yes, but if Sam's capable of doing it, so are the rest of the Night's Watch brothers. I slip it under my bed and move to the table, debating whether I should bring my book to work on while I'm in the library.

Probably not, I decide. Odds are, I won't have time to write anything. Shireen, with her inquiring mind, will likely have at least a handful of questions about Gale. And even if she has just one or two, Gilly and Sam are going to bombard me with more.

It's not their fault for being curious, hypothetically, but I hate Gale for it. As petty as it sounds, this world was supposed to be just for me. I know in my weaker moments I've longed for a district partner – but not him. Anyone but him.

I once heard a story about a man who traveled back in time, taking care to leave behind everything that reminded him of his own time period. Or so he thought, because after he fell in love with a woman and was settling into their new life together, he found a coin in his jacket pocket stamped with a year from the future. Its mere presence pulled him from his newfound happiness, dragging him back to his old miserable life.

Gale is that coin, a haunting relic from my past. A painful reminder of what I ran from, that threatens the continuation of my existence in this world.

Maybe "threatens" is too harsh a word, but I know Gale as well as he knows me. I know quite well what lengths he'll go to if he has a goal in mind. Whether that be defeating the Capitol or convincing me to leave this place with him. If this is to be war, I wonder what I'll have to expect from him during his stay in Westeros. Besides excruciating stubbornness, of course. Is it too much to ask that Jon send him away? Though even if he did, Gale would just set up camp right outside the gate.

I bet he's still out there in the courtyard, surrounded by strangers and standing his ground but unsure what to do now. But that's not my problem. I didn't tell him to come through that portal and get me. I hope he's getting harassed by Thorne, or creeped out by Melisandre, or…

A curse escapes my lips as I turn towards the door in a sudden epiphany. No, Gale does not stand around awkwardly. He gets straight to work, makes himself useful and talks to the right people. And I just left him out there with Jon Snow.

Cursing again repeatedly, I scramble across the room, my imagination already running wild ahead of me. I throw open the door, lunge blindly out, and almost instantly collide with Jon.

"Oh—"

In his surprise, Jon instinctively grasps my arms to steady me. "Sorry," we both say at the same time. Even while riding the end of a semi-frantic state, I manage a light, albeit nervous laugh as I let my hands slide off his own arms. It takes my mind a second to relax and understand that if he's here, he's not talking with Gale. Instead he's standing here outside my door, looking mildly amused by our latest mutual apology.

Then I realize the other side of this. Yes, he is standing outside my door. Meaning I didn't have to come to him because he has come to me. "Did you need something?" I ask carefully.

The humor fades and is replaced with his usual seriousness. "A word, if you would," he answers.

I should've expected as much. Turning, I step back into the room and let him in. He follows and closes the door behind us. It occurs to me that maybe his quarters are a more appropriate place for a conversation than my bedroom, but then again, it's not like it's the first time. Even so, I'm flustered. I can't sit down on the bed, since that feels like an invitation. I'm riled up and I blame Gale for this.

"Sorry about Gale," I say, turning around to straighten things up. It's not as bad in here as the pearl-searching incident, but I did rumple the bedding earlier by collapsing on it. Hopefully, I add, "Did you kick him out yet?"

A beat from Jon. "Edd is showing him to his room. He'll be spending the night here." I roll my eyes with a scoff. Damned Night's Watch hospitality. "Said at first that he expected the two of you would be out of here by the end of the day, but I told him I wouldn't count on it."

I huff out an exasperated breath, smacking the pillow into shape while pretending it's Gale. "If he thinks I'm going to change my mind by tomorrow, he's crazy."

"I don't know. He seems to know an awful lot about you," says Jon, with a strangeness to his tone that sets me on edge. "More than I do, actually."

Fighting through my moment of hesitation, I get in a couple more good hits before stepping away. "That's because we've known each other for six years," I try to say casually, though it just ends up coming out angry. "But a lot can change during that time."

Jon is quiet for a few seconds. I can barely hear him pacing a couple of steps in front of the door behind me.

"Was Ser Alliser right, then?" he asks softly. "Is he a former lover?"

My heart thuds like a heavy rock plummeting down a well in my chest. I don't want to answer this question. I don't like the answer. Not the pain it reminds me of, nor its power to potentially unravel the illusion of my impeccable tragic love story with Peeta that I've fed to Jon. Not to mention, when he invited me to stay here at Castle Black, I don't think dealing with relationship drama between me and a living lover was something Jon signed up for, former or not. "It's complicated," I say, not looking at him.

"Complicated how?" Jon asks. A silence falls, and it turns out the time I take to search for a response is enough time for him to think of another follow-up question. "Was it before Peeta, or after?"

I close my eyes in a wince. "Before. Kind of. And… during."

The next silence that falls is decidedly more uncomfortable as I let him interpret what that means. "Did they know about each other?" he asks at last.

"Yes," I assure him, although still looking anywhere but at him. I scratch absently at the burn scars on my wrist. "It wasn't an affair or anything, it was…" My voice trails off. Wasn't it? Without divulging the fake romance tactic of the Games, there's no getting around the fact that that's exactly what it sounds like. I do my best to work past this while still giving Jon the truth. "Gale and I had been friends since I was twelve, and Peeta knew about that. But then we ended up in this… very public arranged marriage situation, Peeta and I, and of course it was only after that that Gale started making his feelings known, so his timing has always been awful. But then Peeta was taken and had his mind hijacked, and…"

Guilt tightens my throat; I swallow and rub at it, reminded of the collar that once chafed my neck.

"I needed someone I could rely on not to try to kill me, so Gale and I were kind of together then." I scowl, biting on my lip as if I can rid myself of every kiss Gale and I shared after the Quell. "I never really got Peeta back until the end, so I guess that counts as after, too."

Finally, I can't take it any longer, and I glance back at Jon to read his reaction. I don't think he's been looking at me much, either; usually, if his eyes are on me, I can feel it. Right now they've averted to the right side of the room, towards the floor, with a faraway look to them like he's still processing a thought.

"So when you spoke of the woods and the Meadow, you were thinking of Gale, not Peeta," he says, his face expressionless. "Your… former hunting partner."

I shrug, for lack of a better response. "Like I said," I mutter. "Complicated."

"I betrayed Ygritte for the Night's Watch and she shot me for it. I understand 'complicated,'" Jon replies. There's another pause, then he licks his lips and looks over at me with a furrowed brow. "What I don't understand is why you felt the need to lie to me yesterday."

My mouth falls open for a split second; when I manage to close it, I find that it has gone totally dry. I'm so stunned that if I didn't stop myself from staggering back, I would've bumped right into the bed. It's all I can do not to sink onto the mattress in shock.

What does he mean? My mind is screaming at me. Which lie? I stare at him, dumbfounded, waiting for an answer.

After a moment, he lowers his eyes again and gives one with a sigh. "It wasn't your father you were talking to at the cave the other night, was it?"

Oh. That lie. "No," I admit, honestly relieved to clear this up and maybe seize an opportunity to go further into that truth. Until the true implications of Jon's suspicions hit me, and the sinking feeling returns along with a scandalized gut punch. "But I wasn't talking to Gale, either!"

Jon flicks his gaze back up to me, skeptical. "You weren't – with him, that night?" he asks haltingly, awkwardly, the only way to ask such a question.

"No, I was not with him!" I say, simultaneously repulsed and mortified. "I didn't even know he was in Westeros until today!"

"What was he doing with the shadowskin, then?" Jon asks briskly. As my mouth drops open again, he walks around to the side of the bed and picks up the game bag that's peeking out from under it. He sets it on top of the bed and looks over at me. "You said you left it in the cave. I saw him give it to you."

I curse inwardly, gaping down at the incriminating black-and-white markings that peek out of the bag. This does place Gale at the cave within the last two days, which looks bad. But it also makes me more defensive. "Obviously he found it after I was gone!" I say, meeting Jon's eyes firmly. "If we were there together, he wouldn't have had to bring it to me." Then another thought strikes me, and I immediately gesture to him. "You should know, you were there as Ghost!"

"Not the whole time," Jon says quietly.

I recoil, deflated and a little floored. What must be going on in his head? Does he really think that I journeyed all the way out to that cave, just to have a brief fling with Gale? Of course, naturally that's what his mind jumps to, given his own personal association with that place. I fold my arms tightly under my chest, hugging myself as I look away from him. The accusation offends me, leaves a distressing pang in my chest. And it's not just the fact that it's Gale we're talking about, or the fact that it simply did not happen. It's the indignation that comes from the irony that during the time Jon thinks it did happen, I was probably thinking of him instead.

There's nothing going on between Gale and me. There never will be again. Bringing my eyes back up to meet Jon's, I realize I don't want him assuming otherwise.

Jon seems to understand he's ruffled some feathers, so he backtracks a bit. "Look, if it's none of my business, you can tell me so," he says, dropping his gaze to the pelt. "I just find it hard to believe that he just happened upon that particular cave right after you left it and somehow knew the shadowskin was yours." He loses his cool demeanor now, raising his voice and talking faster. "And you claimed to be talking to your father, your first hunting partner, and thought of the woods and the Meadow as places sacred to you, so obviously Gale was on your mind." Frowning, he looks up at me and makes a sweeping gesture towards the door. "Then he shows up here a day later and you act like you had no idea he was coming. Am I supposed to believe that's all just a coincidence?"

I swallow hard, bowled over by his rant. "Some of it is. Some of it isn't."

"What does that mean?" Jon asks, hardly missing a beat.

"If you just give me a moment, I can tell you!" I burst out. It feels weird snapping at Jon, but then again, this is a weird situation.

He stares at me for a second, then concedes with a nod for me to go on.

I breathe out slowly, running my fingers along the shadowskin fur for comfort before turning away and pacing a few steps. This should have calmed me down, but I can feel my frustration burbling back up again. Especially as my fingers fumble to detach my tiny microphone.

"No, it's not a coincidence Gale found the cave," I say, next taking the earpiece out of my ear. "I've been keeping in contact with my friend Beetee through this—" I take a moment to open my palm to him, revealing both devices, "which is basically Panem's equivalent of sending a raven except more immediate and direct – and I've been using it to talk to him and let him know where I am." Fresh irritation bubbles to the surface, so I channel it into pacing harder. "And I trusted him to keep that information between us, but apparently since he and Gale became such good friends during the war, he thought it would be okay to let Gale come to Westeros and track me down.

"So no, Gale didn't just happen upon the cave. That was Beetee I was talking to that night. I told him about the shadowcat attack, he knew the pelt was still there, so he had Gale drop by and pick it up. Keep in mind I was not informed of any of this!" I hurl the devices at the bed, which is probably for the best since I'm in danger of crushing them in my clenched fists. "The rest, yes, is pure coincidence. In case I didn't make it clear out there, I had no intention of seeing him again after the war. I was not with Gale that night, I've never been with anyone that way—"

I stop myself there, pressing my lips together as the blooming panic in my chest threatens to blaze across my entire face. I've tried to straddle the line between vague and informative but now I've definitely said too much.

When at last I find I can bring myself to do it, I spare a glance at Jon. His features have softened, and I think he believes me; he just looks surprised.

"You and Peeta never…?" he asks.

"No," I mumble, self-consciously going to bite my nails before thinking better of it and dropping my hand to my side. "We shared a bed sometimes, but that was because we both had night terrors." I dare to glance at him again. His eyebrows are still raised, which makes me feel more embarrassed. I can't believe this is the part of my rant he chose to focus on. "Oh, don't look so shocked. I can barely talk to you about it without my face turning red."

Jon laughs for the first time since we bumped into each other. "It's just, the way you and Gale argued out there… it was very passionate."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Arguing is arguing. The two of us were just arguing a minute ago. What does that prove?

"Try not to confuse desire with disgust," I tell him, and cross my arms as I look away in reflective annoyance. "Gale is the last person I would do that with."

"But he thinks he can get you to come with him," Jon notes. "Back to Panem."

I reach out and touch the shadowskin again, tracing along the black-and-white stripes with my fingers. So very much like a mockingjay. "Yeah, well, he doesn't know shit," I say, and knock the game bag off the bed.

Jon gives a small scoff of amusement. When I look up at him, I see a trace of an appreciative smile on his lips. But it fades after a moment. I follow his eyes and see that he's staring at the devices, which are still on the bed but knocked slightly askew.

"Why didn't you just tell me the truth?" Jon asks. "About who you were talking to, if it was Beetee and not Gale."

It's a good question. A fair question. One I've been asking myself all night. "I don't know," I confess with a light shrug. "I wanted to, but… it's a lot easier to tell someone you were talking to a person who wasn't really there if the person in question is a dead loved one. Not… alive somewhere in a different country but you're still hearing his voice in your ear." I pick up the earpiece, fingering it in my palm, then look over at Jon and make a feeble attempt at a half-grin. "I think I'm already pushing the limits of your hospitality without making myself sound completely mad."

"You're not mad," Jon assures me. I raise my eyebrows at him skeptically, and he mirrors the gesture with a half-grin of his own. "Not completely," he amends, making me laugh. "I admit, I'm not sure how that works, but I could say the same about a lot of things from your country." He pauses as I concede this with a slight head tilt. It was a lot easier to explain than I thought it would be. Then he bites his lip, as if contemplating whether or not to say what comes next. "For what it's worth, you… you haven't overstayed your welcome."

This catches me by surprise. What I said two days ago… I didn't know he was still thinking about that. "No?" I ask, wrinkling my brow. "From what I've heard, you're even making King Stannis leave in a few days."

"King Stannis and his men have been dwindling our food supply," Jon says matter-of-factly. "You've been adding to it. You earn your keep."

I fight hard to hide how much this pleases me. "Yeah, well… you probably won't need me as much once they're gone," I say with a shrug, which is probably true and not just a half-hearted attempt at humility. Who knows how long I would've been allowed to stay if Stannis hadn't shown up the day before I did with an army to feed? And then a jolt of memory hits me. Stannis… "Shireen! I was supposed to meet her in the library," I say, pocketing the earpiece and microphone before picking up my coat on my way to the door.

"Gale thinks she reminds you of Prim," Jon says, bringing me to an abrupt stop. I turn to him as he comes up next to me. His eyes are soft with sympathy. "I imagine it'll be hard to see her go."

I think Gale should keep Prim's name out of his mouth. But I don't tell Jon that. "I probably shouldn't have gotten attached, but… I guess I couldn't help myself," I murmur. "It's too late now, so… best to spend some time together while we can, right?"

Jon just looks at me, in that contemplative, searching way of his. The one that makes me feel like I've said much more than I meant to, or if I meant more than I said. In the seconds that pass, I start to wonder if I did mean more. But then he just nods in understanding and opens the door for us.

"Mustn't keep her waiting, then," he says, gesturing for me to go first.

We step out of the room together, but I make sure to stride ahead of him as we venture into the courtyard. To get to the library faster, yes, but also to disguise the fact that although a blustering wind lashes ice at my face, my cheeks are, persistently, burning.

Chapter Text

When I enter, I find Shireen and Gilly reading a book together, something about dragons and Targaryens, while Sam as usual has got a massive tome of his own in front of him at the table. Shireen graciously overlooks my tardiness, but during my absence, she's already informed Sam and Gilly that I have a visitor from Panem. She has also taken care not to leave out the important details, as Gilly and Sam chime in to list off between themselves. Like how handsome he is. Or that he calls me Catnip. Or that he wants me to run away with him. The princess clearly knows how to weave quite a romantic tale.

"You're not going to go with him, are you?" Sam asks earnestly.

"She told us you said you weren't going anywhere today," Gilly adds. "But not today doesn't mean not ever."

"Not today, and not ever," I assure them, though I'm eager for this topic to be over. "Suffice to say that Gale isn't exactly my favorite person anymore—"

"Was he ever?" Shireen wants to know.

Despite myself, I laugh. "You're relentless, you know that?" I say. I almost tell her yes, at one point, but come to think of it, that's not true. "Maybe there was a time where he came pretty close. But my favorite person was always my sister. Back then, I would've picked her over him any day. And now, I'm going to pick you."

Shireen flushes with pleasure, her smile spreading from ear to ear. But then her expression turns thoughtful. "Why isn't he your favorite person anymore?" she asks. "Second favorite, I mean."

I hesitate, reluctant to go into detail. "He made some bad choices during the war," I say after a moment. "And broke a promise between us."

"What promise?" she asks straightaway. To her credit, she lowers her voice and looks more solemn now as she studies my face.

Those blue eyes. So like Prim's that I need to lower mine to the book on the table. "We promised we'd always protect each other's families," I say. "And he couldn't do that."

"Oh." Shireen considers this for a minute. When I glance back up, her forehead's furrowed like she wants to ask another question. "Well, maybe that's the other reason why he's here. So that he can apologize."

Her faith in people is the only reason I can manage a smile, even if it fades fast. "I'm afraid it would take a lot more than an apology to fix anything between us," I say. "Besides, when I do leave here, I want to see more of Westeros. If I go with Gale to Panem, I might not be able to come back."

"Why not?" Shireen presses, visibly too dismayed at the prospect to hold back the question.

I exchange a glance with Sam and Gilly. "Travel between Panem and Westeros is… complicated, to say the least."

This, of course, raises a hundred more questions that I can see racing behind Shireen's eyes. "You and Gale were able to do it," she starts to point out, but falters. "Though… I'd hate for you to leave at all." A crestfallen expression takes over her face, her curiosity overpowered. "If only you could come with us instead, when we go."

Oh, no. Not that look. It's the look she gets when she remembers her father's army will be heading out soon. Stannis said they'd be leaving within a fortnight, and it has been well over a week since then. The clock is ticking. "I know," I say consolingly. Then, in a desperate attempt to change the subject, I turn more fully to her with heightened intrigue. "Hey, enough talk about Gale and leaving. Did I hear you say something earlier about having Targaryen blood?"

Shireen beams, sufficiently distracted, and proceeds to explain that her great-grandmother on her father's side was Rhaelle Targaryen – not to be confused with her niece Rhaella, she was aunt and not wife to the Mad King Aerys II – making her a descendant of Aegon the Conqueror. Lucky for me that this girl is even more interested in dragons and actual history than she is in my romantic history.

In fairness, she makes everything sound like it's the most interesting subject ever. I suspect it's because Selyse had her shut away from the world, like the Capitol did with the districts, because she has the same thirst for knowledge and answers that I did when I was her age. The main difference is that Shireen has had plenty of books at her disposal, and the time to read them. But I want to know more, and spend time with Shireen, while also not disturbing Sam too much with our chatter, so Shireen informs me there are more books and scrolls in the King's Tower. We give a brief apologetic look towards Gilly and Sam for ditching them, but Gilly graciously waves us off and says she'll probably meet me in the kitchens soon with Hobb.

We retreat to the King's Tower and Shireen tells me all she knows about past kings and queens and wars of Westeros, which is a lot. Apparently the Targaryens reigned for centuries, even after the dragons died off. Though as we both know, there are three alive today, a fact that delights Shireen. I should have figured after she took a shine to Buttercup – the girl does have a soft spot for vicious little monsters.

As such, she speaks with some reverence when telling me about Aegon the Conqueror, his sister-wives Rhaenys and Visenya, and their dragons Balerion the Black Dread, Vhagar, and Meraxes. The book she's started recently, The Dance of Dragons: A True Telling, recounts the civil war between Rhaenyra Targaryen and her younger half-brother Aegon II as they fought to succeed their father on the Iron Throne. Most of the dragons were killed during that war, the rest dying not long after. In the end, they were small and sickly, pitiful shadows of their ancestors, the last one being only the size of a cat. We both picture Buttercup facing off against it in a knight's armor and laugh, Shireen more respectfully so.

"He could be your Syrax," I say with a grin, referring to Rhaenyra's dragon. With that thought, another one occurs to me. "If… when Stannis gets the throne, does that mean you'll be queen after him?"

Shireen contemplates this, sitting back with The Dance of Dragons in her lap. "I don't know," she says after a moment. "I think so. I could still get a little brother, though so far none of them have lived. Father would've named Uncle Renly his heir, but he was a traitor, and he… died." Her lowered eyes and subdued tone suggest there's a lot more to it than that, but she doesn't want to go into it.

"Targaryen against Targaryen," I mutter. "Baratheon against Baratheon. Don't any siblings here love each other?"

Shireen bites her lip, then looks up at me with a cheeky smile. "The Lannisters?"

I gasp, then choke on my own laughter. Shireen tries to look guilty at first but ends up giggling right along with me. Turns out Jon's father sent word of the Lannisters' secret to hers, and Stannis was the one who sent ravens out to all of Westeros with the truth. She confides that though she doesn't know Tommen very well, she likes him and still thinks of him as a cousin, but she wants to honor her father's claim. It's for the same reason that she would rather Daenerys not fly her dragons here to Westeros, even though she would love to meet them.

"Think you'd be brave enough to ride one?" I ask.

Shireen shakes her head, although she looks wistful. "It'd be enough just to touch them," she says softly. "Their scales."

I understand at first, taking in her greyscale scars, but end up wrestling back a grin. "Shireen Baratheon," I say importantly, "petter of dragons."

This gets us back on track with the Targaryen conversation, as she reminds me just how much Aegon the Conqueror loved his sisters. Her information gets a little nonchronological as the name of their father, Aerion, reminds her of Maester Aemon's brother Aerion, and she desperately tries to find a balance of eagerness and respect as she tells me the prince got so drunk that he drank a cup of wildfire, believing it would turn him into a dragon.

"How do you drink wildfire?" I ask, laughing mostly because I'm confused but her fascination is contagious.

"Oh, wildfire is a green liquid the alchemists make to set aflame," Shireen explains. "The fire it makes is green and it can burn for a long time, even on water. They have lots of it in King's Landing, because the Mad King was so obsessed with it. That's how the Lannisters defeated my father's army at the Battle of Blackwater Bay." She lowers her voice to a sad whisper. "Ser Davos lost four of his sons to the wildfire. He saw it happen – all three of his ships burned. It was terrible. He barely escaped with his life."

As she's telling me this, a memory of Ser Davos surfaces, and I feel like I've just swallowed wildfire myself. Hot guilt sears in my throat and chest. No one deserves to die like that, I practically chastised him. As if it's never been personal to him. As if he didn't see his own children swallowed up by a scorching green inferno. And then for the Red Woman to tell him, before or after, that death by fire is the purest death…? If she had said that to me when the bombs took Prim, I would've been murderous. At once, his fatherly behavior towards Shireen makes a lot more sense to me.

Before I can say anything in reply, the door to the room opens and Selyse appears. She takes one look at me and furrows her brow, pinching her lips in distaste. "Leave us," she says, motioning at me to go away.

Shireen gives me a regretful look, but I get up obediently and walk out, my mind drifting elsewhere as I head down the winding stairs on autopilot. I barely even remember pushing open the door to the King's Tower and stepping out into the courtyard, let alone making it to the kitchens. Hobb says something to me, and the next thing I know, I'm outside again, bringing Ghost his lunch. But still my thoughts linger on Shireen, and Ser Davos, and what I've learned of this ongoing war.

Four sons. Four of Davos' children who went off to fight and never came back. Jon's brother Robb, who went to a wedding to make peace and got slaughtered. Rickon, who only wanted to escape and hasn't been heard from since. And Prim, who came to the Capitol as a nurse and not a soldier, whose good heart and innocence cost her her life.

None of them were safe. They were, all of them, in an arena. This war that Westeros is fighting is just another one of the Games, where the winner gets the Throne. And suddenly I am afraid, more than I was when I encountered the wights or the shadowcat. Not for myself, but for Shireen. For her journey south, as her father prepares to fight the Boltons at Winterfell. The dread seeps in like poison fog, and I don't know how to get it out.

As Ghost gnaws at his meat, I snap out of my thoughts and turn around to let him finish his meal in peace instead of hovering over him with a vacant stare.

That's when I see them. Stannis and Melisandre, over by the lift, talking to Gale.

Mostly it's Stannis and Gale, with Melisandre lurking in the background, immersed in a conversation that's been going on for who knows how long. But then Gale says something and gestures, and Stannis slips past him and crosses the courtyard. I watch him tentatively as he comes near, but he passes me too with a mere second's glance in my direction before making his way towards the maester's quarters and library.

Stannis, I realize, with some relief as I feel a little of the poison leaking out of me. He's cold, and terrifying, and a determined leader. Shireen is his only daughter and heir. If not Davos, it was probably Stannis who agreed to let her keep Buttercup around. He must have a soft spot for her. Of course, he will protect her. He and Davos, both.

But then I glance back to Gale, and now find him speaking with Melisandre. She's looking at him the same way she looked at Jon when he was training in the courtyard – the sharpened gaze of a hungry lynx about to pounce.

This instantly gets my hackles up. Not because I'm jealous, but because I feel like I'm watching history repeat itself. Gale and Coin, Coin and Gale. Now Gale and Melisandre. I don't know what they're saying, but I know what my instincts are telling me – an alliance between these two will lead to no good.

Alliance, I silently scoff to myself. If that's the right word for it, now that Stannis is not around. It's obvious she's intrigued by what she sees.

If Gale decides he prefers redheads, then good for him. At least he'll leave me alone. But, given my encounters with her, the Red Woman is a different matter…

She eventually glances past Gale, towards me, and says something with a smile that makes him turn. Great – now he's caught me staring. Her knowing expression and his flicker of hope both make me want to wring or mangle something, to retreat to the kitchens and help chop meat and vegetables for supper so that Gale will think twice before approaching me when I have a weapon in hand, but it's too late. He's already dismissed Melisandre with a nod and is heading this way.

Knowing his presence will disturb Ghost, and not wanting to stand around all demurely like a schoolgirl waiting for him, I steel myself and freeze my face into indifference as I meet him in the middle. Melisandre watches me curiously before she slinks off, as she tends to do, but I barely linger over her before I stop in front of Gale and cross my arms.

"What were those two talking to you about?" I ask, getting straight to the point. Any hesitation would leave room for him to ask why I was so attentive in the first place.

He shrugs, taking half a second to look back over his shoulder while Melisandre vanishes into the King's Tower. "War, mostly. The one in Panem. The one Stannis is fighting now," he answers. "They knew I was a soldier. Got the impression that they were looking to recruit." Still squinting, he looks back to me and adds pointedly, "At least somebody wants me here."

I roll my eyes at his sulking. "Yeah. The Red Woman," I counter, and remember something Davos told me. "Apparently the last time she took an interest in someone our age, it wasn't good."

"Yeah, what wasn't good?" Gale asks dully, humoring me. "If you want to scare me off, you're going to have to be a bit less vague."

"I don't know, you'd have to ask Ser Davos about it! And he's the King's Hand so I think he knows what he's talking about." I breathe out harshly through my nose, annoyed that Gale has fired me up again. "Besides, I shouldn't have to scare you off. Since you said you saw the footage, you should know she's crazy. She burns people." As my own words sink in, I try to maintain eye contact and find myself floundering. "But I guess that's never been much of a dealbreaker for you."

Gale looks hurt. I can tell he wants to tell me that's not fair, but he knows he has no right to. Instead, he hunches forward and mirrors my crossed arms. "Yeah, well, why're you worried about me?" he says, lowering his voice. "She seems just as interested in you. More so, maybe. If you think she's so dangerous, what are you still hanging around here for?"

I bristle. Somehow, he has managed to cling to a thread of proof that I still care about him and a condemnation of Westeros's safety at the same time. I'm slipping.

"Stannis's group won't be staying here much longer," I mumble. "When he leaves, she leaves with him."

"And what about you? How long do you expect you'll be allowed to stay here?" Gale presses. "Castle Black isn't exactly women-friendly, Katniss. That guy Thorne seems like he hates you."

"So?" I argue. "He's not in charge. Jon is. And Jon says I haven't overstayed my welcome, so..." Trailing off, I move to the crude straw archery targets and start taking out arrows to put them away, if only to do something more useful with my time.

Gale follows me and chuckles weakly, glancing around the courtyard. "Yeah. Jon," he says halfheartedly.

For some reason, this vexes me deeply, and not just because it adds nothing to the conversation. "What about Jon?" I snap, daring him with my eyes to continue that thought. However petty it is.

He doesn't disappoint. "Well, is he always going to be around to protect you?"

"I don't need protecting—"

"You know what I mean," Gale says impatiently. "Last I heard, Jon's leaving for Hardhome. What, is he taking you with?"

"No," I mutter.

"Who's in charge once he's gone?" Gale asks, in that tone he uses when he can already guess the answer.

I scowl, hating that he's made a good point. Despite their friction, Jon's named Thorne acting first ranger until Benjen sees fit to return. Who else would he pick for acting Lord Commander, other than someone who already has experience in the role?

Sighing, I unceremoniously drop the arrows into their holder. "Thorne and I stay out of each other's way."

"For now," says Gale. "You know I'm right. Jon leaves? Best possible scenario, the nicest thing Thorne will do to you is kick you out before he tries anything. So either you wait around until that happens, or you can just save everyone some time and come back to Panem with me." Then his forehead wrinkles in thought, before he lifts his eyebrows at me meaningfully. "Or you could go with Jon. I'm surprised he hasn't already invited you by now, since he enjoys your company so much."

I hear the jealous implication like a mosquito whining in my ear, but I choose to ignore it. "I cannot believe we're still talking about this," I say, starting to storm off towards the kitchens.

Gale catches up easily. "Look, we can stay until after Shireen leaves, I know that's important to you—"

"There is no 'we'!" I burst out, stopping in my tracks and whirling to face him. "You're not staying that long. I can tell you that much. Don't give conditions like you're being gracious! 'We can stay until after Shireen leaves' – seriously, what is that?"

"Oh, come on, we both know that's what's really keeping you here," Gale shoots back. "With an army of white walkers to the north? And a war to the south?" His flared temper has attracted some attention, so he lowers his voice. "You left Panem because you didn't want to be the Mockingjay anymore, and I get that. But it sounds like Westeros needs one."

"It's not me—" I start to protest.

"It could be," Gale argues. "You know that. Melisandre knows that. If you wanted to get sucked into another war, that'd be one thing. But I know you don't. And the only reason you'd want to stay in Westeros so badly, with all the baggage that comes with it…" he pauses, his eyes softening with sympathy, "is because you think you've found yourself another Prim."

There it is. Her name, coming out of his mouth again. I debate raising my bad arm to slap him but it's not worth the energy. Instead, I must nurse the other wound he's opened.

"I know she's not Prim," I say, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.

"But she's like the missing piece between you two," says Gale, looking thoughtful. "Your mother's eyes, your father's hair?"

I've noticed that too, but it bugs me that he has. "I didn't come here to replace my sister," I snarl, taking a step forward to get in his face. "And even if I've found someone like Prim, who the hell are you to take that away from me?"

If possible, his eyes look sadder. "I'm not taking her away, Catnip. Stannis is," he whispers. "Tomorrow."

I step back with a sharp breath, his words having the same effect as a hard kick to the chest. My fingers reach out blindly and grip the edge of a barrel for support, and I want to sit down at first but change my mind, turning toward the King's Tower as if something there will confirm it for me. A glimpse of Selyse scowling from the window. Shireen running out to say goodbye. Even Melisandre standing and waiting with her usual self-assured smile. There's nothing, but I know it's true. Selyse probably ushered me out so she could break the news to her.

Tomorrow. I start counting the days in my head, then on my fingers, since Shireen used the phrase "within a fortnight." I have to restart a couple of times, but my heart sinks each time I run out of fingers on my second hand. It's definitely been over a week but less than two. But if Stannis said it, he meant two weeks or less.

I just thought… I don't know what I thought.

"They're marching for Winterfell in the morning," Gale says, drawing my attention back to him.

"Maybe…" Breathing suddenly feels harder, like I've been running. "Maybe we can get Stannis to…"

"Leave her here?" Gale finishes for me, not making any effort to hide the skepticism in his tone. "I'm not comfortable leaving you here with some of these guys. Stannis isn't going to leave his daughter behind. She's a princess, and she's, what, ten? Eleven?"

"And bringing her this close to a battlefield is better?!" I demand, measuring with my thumb and index finger. I should be keeping my voice down, but it's all I can do not to get hysterical at this point. Prim never should have gone to the Capitol. She should have stayed in District 13 with Mom. And Shireen should stay at Castle Black with me.

Gale averts his eyes, lifting them fleetingly to the courtyard and all of Castle Black around us, then presses his lips together as he looks back at me. "I think he'll want his family with him, Katniss," he says.

Family? A mother who's distant at best, a father who's headed off to fight and possibly die, and a young daughter they're dragging into that mess. Some family. He spends more time with the Red Woman than with either of them. And Selyse would've left Shireen at Dragonstone if she'd had her way. I'm about to get angry until I remember Ser Davos. I'm pretty sure he loves her just as much as Buttercup does. The anger ebbs somewhat, but the despair and anxiety do not.

I like Davos Seaworth. I know he will be there for her. I just don't know if he can protect her.

Gale shifts closer to me, an unsettling comfort that I refuse to acknowledge.

"They'll march south tomorrow for war," he says. "You and I both know there's a good chance you won't see her again. And I'm betting Jon will be leaving for Hardhome soon after. You wouldn't have had Beetee send out that drone if you weren't worried. What if he doesn't come back, Katniss? What then?" Leaning in too close, he dares to graze my cheek with his fingers, then thinks better of it and lowers his hand to my shoulder. His dark, sorrowful eyes search mine as his voice drops to a murmur. "You can't just world-hop every time you lose people."

I stare at Gale's hand on my shoulder for a second, before picking it off with my fingers like a soiled washcloth. "You're right," I say. "According to you, I should do it before."

"Katniss—" he starts again with a sigh.

"What do you want from me?" I ask, cutting him off. "'You know this,' 'we both know that…' Stop acting like you still know me. We haven't seen each other in months, you don't know a damn thing about me anymore. If you think I'd just pack up and go with you—" I stop myself, shaking my head. No, as mad as I am at him, he cannot possibly be that stupid. He can't lack that much self-awareness. His presence here suddenly makes no sense to me. "Did you actually believe that I would pick you over Westeros? Why, because I'm scared of another war? Because I'm tired of losing people? What would make you the better option?" He looks hurt and caught at the same time, so I heave an exhausted sigh of my own. "What do you want, Gale? Why did you have to come here?"

He lifts his gaze away from me again, lingering above my head before casting a speculative glance at our surroundings. "I just want to know if this is really the life you want," he mutters. "And not just you trying to forget."

I narrow my eyes in response. "Unfortunately for you, I can't forget."

Gale bites at his lip, and I'm sure I've inflicted the desired amount of pain. A year ago, I saw that same pain in his eyes and looked at his lips like this with the intention to kiss them. Looking at them now, I feel no such desire. Nothing. Only the bitterness of the fact that a year later, he is still the bearer of my last kiss. This man, who took one source of happiness away from me and seems hell-bent on doing it again.

"I'm here, because I want to be here," I tell him, leaning forward so that he doesn't miss a word. "I have made it very clear to Beetee that I'm not looking for an exit point. Nothing's going to change my mind. Not the white walkers, not the war, not the shadowcat, and certainly not you. If I have to fight for this world, I'll fight for it. If I lose people I care about, then so be it." I place my feet and point firmly at the ground. "I am staying right here."

Gale sighs, looking simultaneously defeated and unfazed. "I know you are, Catnip," he says.

I can't help but recoil as my brow furrows deeper, confusion giving way to suspicion. Gale would never give up that easily. "Then why did you come?"

With a shrug, he chews his mouth some more, and forces a weak smile. "I had to try, didn't I?"

The pain in his eyes is meant to debilitate me, but I step forward again and lock mine with them in defiance. "All you had to do," I say coldly, "was leave me alone."

Gale lowers his gaze, and I relax my shoulders, thinking I've had the last word. Until he mumbles, "Leave you alone with your new Peeta, you mean."

My breath hitches in my throat, as my heart has managed to lodge itself there. "Don't…" I warn him.

A shadow of gloomy satisfaction crests over his face. He shuffles his feet, avoiding my glare for a moment as he looks all around, then leans in close again with his arms crossed. "I'm right, aren't I?" he asks softly. "About you and Jon?"

I close the distance between us, meeting him head-on. "It is none of your business," I say, enunciating each word with hissed venom.

Instantly, I realize my mistake. I stare back at him, my scowl wavering, hoping he doesn't notice that by getting my point across, I have simultaneously proven his. The answer is in my non-answer. I don't owe him anything, but it would have been so simple to spit a "no" in his face. To reiterate that he doesn't know shit about me anymore, and Jon is not my new Peeta because there is nothing going on between us. But one thing about our relationship that hasn't changed since the war is this: I have never been able to lie to Gale. My inability to deny my feelings for Jon is as good as any love confession.

Gale, predictably, takes this as his answer. "Yeah, I thought so," he murmurs, which makes me simmer with fury. I hide my face from him, fuming to myself but hoping that will be the end of it. Mercifully, he lets a silence draw out, until he's unable to help himself. "You know if you marry him, your name would be Katniss Snow."

I roll my eyes at this. "I guess it's a good thing neither of us plan on getting married, then!" I say sarcastically. Why is he the third person to bring that up? Jon doesn't even like the name Snow, anyway, and Jon Everdeen sounds better, but I decide not to encourage anything by pointing this out. "Men of the Night's Watch aren't even allowed to get married. Or have kids. It's part of the oath that they swear when they join."

Despite this, Gale isn't deterred. "Is that the only thing that's stopping you?" he asks. "Sounds to me like he's perfect for you."

His response is so deadpan, so on the mark, I'm left reeling for a few seconds. I also recall having the exact same thought before, which annoys me greatly. "It's too soon for us," I try again, frustrated. "Not just since Peeta. The girl he loved died days before we met. Keep in mind that was only a couple of weeks ago!"

"I seem to remember a lot can happen in a couple of weeks," says Gale. "Maybe you should start asking yourself why you're so welcome here."

"Maybe you should start remembering that you're not," I shoot back. I already know why I'm welcome here. I'm actually useful, whereas Gale seems to have been put in this world just to torment me. And he's doing too good a job of it, so I look down and pick at my burn scars. "We're just friends. He doesn't think of me that way."

"Really," Gale says, his voice dripping with doubt. He nods over my shoulder. "Then why does he keep looking over at us?"

Stunned curiosity wins over. I glance behind me, and sure enough, I find Jon on one of the wooden balconies. He's surrounded by a few of the Night's Watch brothers – Edd, Halder, Yarwyck – but his attention is focused purely on us. On me. Our eyes find each other, and a flare of adrenaline shoots through me as my pulse quickens. He looks similarly thrown at being noticed, at first, but then he blinks it away and his expression turns more questioning. A subtle yet prompting lift of his eyebrows, an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. Silently asking if he needs to intervene.

I linger on him for a second, trying to convey an answer through a wry half-smile – thanks, not yet, but maybe – before turning back to Gale.

"Obviously because you won't stop bothering me," I tell him. Which makes sense. Jon's the Lord Commander and I'm under his care. Of course he's going be vigilant of the persistent newcomer who's currently driving me crazy. But I must be crazy if I'm still subjecting myself to this, so I turn and start making my way for the kitchens again. I hear his light tread on the snow, so I add, "I can't believe Beetee would just inflict you upon me. How did you even find out I was here, anyway?"

"The obsidian deposits," Gale says matter-of-factly. "Turns out the closest ones to Beetee were in District Two, so he reached out to me." This brings me to a sudden halt, as I turn to gape at Gale in disbelief. "He was vague about what he needed it for, but I got curious. One day I decided to deliver it to him personally. Overheard him talking to you. He ended the call, but he couldn't get out of the footage fast enough. Naturally, it raised a few questions."

I close my eyes for a moment, a mixture of resigned and exasperated as I remember I'm annoyed at them both. Of course. What are the odds that dragonglass happens to be found in Gale's district in plentiful supply? Not in my favor, so it seems. But the second half of Gale's explanation brings up a memory of that one conversation with Beetee. The voice in the background calling his name. Him cutting the connection in a hurry. Yes, that was five or six days ago. They really have been at this for almost a week.

At the sound of shuffling and clinking, I open my eyes to see Gale digging through his game bag. "Anyway, we got to collaborating," he continues, "and we ended up making this."

Out of the bag comes an exquisite dagger with a shimmering black blade. I gasp as he hands it to me, carefully accepting it and looking it over. It's dragonglass, that much is evident, but also there's a mockingjay engraved in the hilt.

"Beetee said he knew you didn't want to be the Mockingjay anymore, but… it couldn't hurt to use your sigil," Gale explains. "He also told me you'd say all that, and if I insisted on making the trip to Westeros, I might as well make myself useful."

I allow myself a moment to admire the weapon, tracing the mockingjay with a finger. But it's only a temporary fix, and I can feel the thrill fading slowly from my face as the fury reemerges.

"All this time, you've known, and he's known, and… and he never said a word?" I'm gripping the dagger's handle in one hand, but about ready to rip the earpiece out again with the other and stomp it into the snow. "He could've at least given me advanced warning or something!" Instead, I fling the dagger at a practice target across the courtyard.

My throw ends up flying a little too close to some of the Night's Watch brothers. The dagger whizzes by Olly's head, making him jump to the side. He lets out a low, startled cry as the blade hits the center of the target with a thud, before looking back at me in bewilderment.

"Sorry," I call out, waving awkwardly.

The boy eyes me warily for a couple of seconds, then glances back at the dagger. It's hard to tell from a distance, and from this angle, but I think he looks vaguely impressed.

"Don't get mad at Beetee," Gale says, shifting his game bag on his shoulder. "I asked him not to say anything."

"Oh, he kept this huge secret from me this long because you asked him to," I say, rolling my eyes as I go to fetch the dagger. "That's fine, then. That makes it perfectly okay."

Gale harrumphs, tailing me. "You know, I'd think you'd be a little more sympathetic about something like that," he points out. "Withholding pertinent information from someone because it was told to you in confidence? Because another person specifically told you not to?"

My stomach flips nervously. Benjen. He's talking about Benjen. "That's different."

"Well, let's ask Jon. See what he thinks," says Gale.

Furious, I yank the dagger out of the target and point it at Gale's chin. "Don't," I say warningly.

Gale considers me and the blade for a moment, then takes it gingerly from my hand. "What's the matter, Catnip?" he asks as he slips it into his bag. "Worried another one of your arena boyfriends will realize your relationship started out on a lie?"

It was wise of him to disarm me, but needless. My jaw drops and the air leaves my lungs as the rest of my body freezes up. Glancing back at me, he notices my face and balks as his own comment plays back to him in his head.

"Look, that was too far, I shouldn't have—" He shakes his head and starts again. "I just think you shouldn't be so quick to blame Beetee for keeping a secret when yours is—"

"I don't care what you think," I snarl at him. That's when I hear a throat clear behind me.

Whirling around, I find Gilly approaching us cautiously, carrying Little Sam in a wooden cradle. She gives us both a timid smile and nods towards the kitchens. "I don't mean to interrupt. I was just about to go see Hobb," she says, and looks over my shoulder as her smile grows more relaxed but polite. "You must be Gale."

Part of me wonders how much she overheard, if anything. The rest is just grateful to have an out. "Gale, this is Gilly… of Craster's Keep."

He instantly switches to charming mode. "Gale Hawthorne. Nice to meet you."

Nodding, she manages an awkward laugh. "I'd shake hands, but..." She shifts Sam's cradle in her arms for emphasis.

"Of course." Gale retracts his arm, scratching his neck sheepishly.

"Yeah, we'd better get to the kitchens so you can have a place to set him down," I say, seizing an opportunity. "Come on, Gilly." Quickly, I start shepherding her toward the building, but throw Gale a warning glower over my shoulder.

He's standing where I left him for once, watching me go with a frown but not saying another word.

Good, I think, turning my back on him. Let's hope it stays that way. But as Gilly and I walk off, I begin to question whether it is good. Leaving him to his thoughts, which may be his most powerful weapon of all

What's worse, I wonder? A Gale who doesn't know when to shut his mouth, or one who is fully silent?

Something tells me that by the end of the day, I'm going to find out.

Chapter Text

On our way to the kitchens, Gilly and I pass through the dining hall. Ser Davos is in there, sitting by the fire and whittling away at a piece of wood. He glances up and offers us a friendly greeting before his primary focus returns to the project he's working on, which is starting to take the shape of a four-legged animal.

"What's that?" I ask, slowing down to get a better look.

Davos carves a bit more off the side and brushes off the shavings. "A gift, for Princess Shireen," he replies, twisting it around as if to model it. "Supposed to be a stag, but it's not quite finished." Then, as an afterthought, he peers back up at me. "You can keep a secret, can't you?"

I offer a wry smile in return. "I've got plenty of them, myself. What's one more?" I say with a half-shrug.

Davos chuckles good-naturedly, and my eyes linger over the wooden carving as another memory claws its way to the surface. A roughly carved wooden star hanging from a woven grass necklace around Rue's neck. It was her tribute token, I think, and it was supposed to bring good luck. Hopefully Shireen's house sigil will serve her better.

"It's beautiful," I tell him, dragging myself out of those thoughts. "She'll love it."

"Thank you, milady," says Davos, and gets back to his carving. "I certainly hope so."

I follow Gilly into the kitchens, where Hobb has greens to cut up, meat to carve, and birds to pluck. At least I'll have tasks to keep me distracted for a while, and Gale can't bother me in here. Hobb may be missing some fingers but he seems pretty handy with that cleaver, and I doubt he'd take too well to a stranger coming in and harassing Gilly and me while we work. For my own amusement, I picture Gale walking in, Hobb casually picking up the cleaver and strolling over to him, and Gale raising his hands in surrender as he quickly backs out.

That fantasy ends after Hobb heads out to the larder, leaving Gilly and me alone. And Little Sam, of course. He's so well-behaved that save for a baby sneeze or coo now and then, it's easy to forget he's there. I wonder if that's because his early days have been spent needing to flee the terrors of the north in silence, or draw no attention to himself as a wildling child being hosted by the Night's Watch. All the same, even he wouldn't respond well to Hobb – or me – violently chasing out an intruder. Reconsidering my daydream, I pause briefly to give Little Sam a fond tickle.

Gilly hears him laugh, and smiles at us as she plucks at some feathers. Then her smile slips away gradually, fading to something a bit more pensive, a look I've seen on her face a couple of times since we've been in here. Like she's lost in thought.

Usually, we have a good back-and-forth even with Hobb present, mostly involving the food or the jobs at hand so it's easy for me. It hasn't affected that, so maybe nothing's amiss. I brush it off and resume chopping vegetables.

Seconds later, Gilly's voice breaks through the silence. "What's an 'arena boyfriend'?" she asks, carefully pronouncing the words.

My hand almost slips in mid-chop. "What…?" I choke out, attempting to swallow my panic.

"Gale asked you if you were worried another one of your arena boyfriends will realize your relationship started out on a lie," Gilly says. Her plucking slows, and she looks up at me again. "What did he mean?"

"He, uh…" I start chopping again nervously, keeping my eyes on the knife. "I think what he means by 'arena boyfriend' is a guy you're close with when you both find yourself someplace dangerous, or you're on an adventure or something, and you need to work together in order to survive."

"Oh…" She sounds like she accepts my answer. Or at least the definition. I hear her plucking again, taking handfuls of feathers at a time. "So, when we were running away from Craster's Keep and heading toward the Wall, Sam was my arena boyfriend." There's a hint of amusement in her tone. When I glance over at her, she's beaming at the term like she thinks it's cute.

"Yeah. Exactly," I say, feeling more than a little relieved. But as much as I like those two together, I probably shouldn't have her going around calling him that, so I backtrack. "Well, it's meant in kind of a romantic sense. Gale was just trying to give me a hard time."

"You mean he was talking about Jon," Gilly says shrewdly. And before I have time to lament her cleverness, another epiphany flashes across her face. "And the lie…" She pauses, letting the thought ruminate while my panic blossoms anew. "It's that you haven't told him where you're from. How you got here."

Guiltily, I look away again, but don't bother to use chopping as a distraction. Yes, that's true. But that's not it.

Gilly takes my silence as confirmation. "I'm sure he'll understand," she says softly. "Just like Sam and I did when you told us. You could have Beetee speak to him too—"

"I already told him about Beetee. It's not that," I interrupt, and set the knife down on the table with a sigh. "It's something else."

"What is it?" Gilly presses. Her voice sounds wary, but still gentle. I look at her nervously, and her face softens. Putting down the half-plucked bird, she comes closer to me, sensing that this is something bigger. "Katniss, it's all right," she says. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."

I hesitate, studying the sincerity in her eyes. I want to tell someone so badly, if only to undo one of the knots in my stomach. "And you won't tell anyone else? Not even Sam?"

Her eyebrows jump up in surprise, and she looks concerned yet almost flattered to share in such an exclusive secret. "Not even Sam," she echoes. "I promise."

That's good enough for me, but the hardest part is what comes next. I briefly peek out the windows in case there's anyone passing by who could overhear, then take a deep breath and lean against the edge of the table. Even though the bubbling pot of stew should be loud enough to cover it up, I drop my voice to a low, conspiratorial tone.

"You know how Jon let me stay here because I was sent by his uncle, Benjen Stark?" I remind her, hugging my arms around myself. "Because I had news of him?"

Gilly immediately nods. "That he's alive," she says, smiling.

My stomach sinks, and I bite my lip hard. If I can't handle telling her…

"No, Gilly," I whisper, forcing myself to meet her gaze. "He's not."

The words take a minute to settle. I see the smile drain from her face like blood, leaving nothing but stunned confusion in her eyes as she stares back at me, all the warmth from them gone.

"I don't understand," she says, her voice cool and guarded as she raises it a little. "You said you talked to him."

Because it's Gilly, her change of demeanor takes me aback. "I did."

"But then you saw him die," she says.

I shake my head. "No. He was already dead when I talked to him—"

"The dead can't talk, Katniss," Gilly says sharply. Little Sam bleats in disapproval at the edge in his mother's tone, so she goes over to give him a comforting touch.

"Apparently they can," I argue, keeping my voice down.

"That doesn't make any sense," Gilly insists. "How do you know he was dead?"

I go and sit down at the table where Sam's cradle rests. "He basically implied it. I asked him why he couldn't return to Castle Black and he said, 'The dead cannot pass.' And he told me not to tell Jon what he'd become," I explain in a rush, then tent my fingers beneath my chin. "He didn't look like a wight or anything, at least not the ones I've seen. But he was pale as death. His skin was gray. Some of the flesh on his cheek had decayed."

Gilly sits down too, holding Sam close. She's thinking hard again, but it's clear she doesn't know what to make of this. "But he spoke to you," she says after a moment. "And he helped you fight the white walkers."

I nod, which is hard to do on tented fingers. "Like I said, he wasn't one of them," I say. "He was just… undead."

"Like a ghost?" Gilly asks. "You met him in the Haunted Forest."

A shrug from me this time. "Could a ghost hand me my game bag? I thought things went right through them."

"I don't know," she says, and offers me a weak smile. "I've never met one."

I manage to crack a half-grin, but it fizzles out fast. "Gilly, how am I supposed to tell Jon that his uncle's never coming through that gate?" I mutter. "He's got enough to worry about with the Hardhome trip. And if I tell him now, he might go looking for him. Which is kind of the reason Benjen asked me not to say anything in the first place."

Now that Sam's been soothed into a drowsy state, Gilly sets him back in his cradle. "Well, until Jon knows the truth, the longer his uncle takes to return, the more he'll worry. At least if you give him an answer, he'll stop wondering." She picks the bird back up and starts pulling at feathers again. "I just wonder what happened to him. If he died on that side of the Wall, you'd think he'd have been touched by a white walker. But his body wasn't burned, so why didn't he turn into one? And how come he's talking?"

"No idea," I tell her. "But he is. That's the whole reason why I'm even here."

Gilly considers me for a moment, conflicting emotions crossing her face. At last, she sighs wistfully. "You'd think the answer would be in one of those old books and scrolls in the library," she says, turning the bird carcass thoughtfully. "Maybe Sam would know."

I drop my hands to the table and look at her. "You promised not to tell Sam," I say.

She gives me a resigned side-glance. "Fine," she concedes, and plucks more feathers. "Maybe I'll look into it myself. You're just lucky Shireen taught me how to read."

I relax my shoulders, exhaling in relief. "Thank you."

"You still need to tell him, though," Gilly replies quietly. "Jon."

"I know," I say, taking a feather and twirling it between my fingers. "Just thought I'd start with you."

Her expression softens, but before either of us can say anything else, I hear a door opening, and a pair of boots with a purposeful tread thudding into the dining hall. At first I think it's Hobb coming back from the larder, which would've been enough to bring me to my feet, but a troubling feeling draws me towards the door to the dining hall. That's when I hear Stannis's voice on the other side.

"It's time," he says. My heart drops into my stomach.

There's the scraping of wood against stone floor as Davos hastily stands up. "Uh, Your Grace!" he tries. "Wouldn't it be better to wait?"

Yes, Stannis, I think. Listen to your Hand.

"When Jon Snow returns with the wildlings, we could have thousands more men—"

"If Jon Snow returns with the wildlings," says Stannis. "We can't wait that long. We have the advantage – more men, more horses, all fed and rested. But every day we wait, the odds shift in Bolton's favor. This could turn to winter at any moment." Peeking through a crack in the door, I see Stannis gesturing outside. "We have to act now. Give the order. We march at sunrise."

Davos steps forward with some reluctance. "I'll choose a dozen men to stay, and guard the queen and the princess," he says.

I feel hope flicker in my chest like a small candle. Could it be that Gale was wrong after all?

Then Stannis says the thing that makes that same hope sputter and die. "No need. They're coming with us."

I don't even think about what I do next. Pushing open the door, I burst out into the dining hall and stride towards him with a pounding heart and one purpose in mind.

"Your Grace, I was wondering if I might ask you to reconsider," I call out, causing both men to turn toward me in surprise. Stannis's naturally hardened gaze stalls me at first, but I find my breath and stand my ground. "In my experience, it's better for girls her age to be nowhere close to a battlefield."

Ser Davos glances back at Stannis expectantly. "It's a tough road ahead, Your Grace," he says in my defense, and gestures to me. "Perhaps they would be safer—"

"Here?" Stannis says, his eyebrows lifting with heavy skepticism. "Half these watchmen are killers and rapists."

"Half of them support Jon," I remind him firmly. "And will defend the queen and the princess if he asks." Knowing what I do of Stannis, I try to appeal to him next with logic. "The Night's Watch only has fifty men, half of that is twenty-five, and if a dozen of yours stay to guard, the half you're worried about will be outnumbered."

Although Davos seems satisfied with my answer, Stannis only needs half a second before he goes back to looking supremely unimpressed.

"Many of the men who support Jon Snow will likely be accompanying him to Hardhome," he reminds me in turn. "Say I did leave a dozen men, but Jon took twenty of his—"

"I could handle the other eight," I say without hesitation.

Stannis scoffs, though with him I can't tell if it's scornful or genuine amusement. "Could you…" he says.

Either way, he's not convinced. He moves like he's headed out the door, and I feel desperation surging through me as I follow him with two more insistent strides. "Please, Your Grace!" I say, prepared to beg just as I did with Haymitch for Peeta's life. He pivots again, and I lower my voice in an attempt at humility. "I think Shireen should stay at Castle Black with me."

For a moment, we are blanketed by silence, except for the faint sounds of metal clanking and wind blowing outside. Stannis regards me coldly, his blue eyes holding more of a chill than the winds at the top of the Wall. "You don't trust I can protect my own daughter?" he asks, his own voice dangerous and quiet.

I stare back at him, my eyes not leaving his, hoping they hold the exact same amount of ice.

"All due respect, Your Grace," I say, matching his volume, "the last time I trusted a person to protect someone I cared about, he helped build the weapon that ended up destroying her."

His stony expression wavers, only a fraction of an inch, but then frosts over again. "Shireen is my daughter, Miss Everdeen. Not yours," he intones. "I suggest you remember that." To Davos, he adds decisively, "They march with us."

With that, he walks out of the dining hall, leaving me to exhale shakily before exchanging a glance with Davos.

"As you wish, Your Grace," he replies, giving me a sympathetic eyebrow raise that says we tried, and then he follows Stannis out onto the wooden balcony.

My heart is still racing. My mind prods me to go back and help Gilly, but panic overtakes the thought. Sunrise. I have mere hours until I lose Shireen. Gale is right, this is something I cannot do again. It's as if this is the eve of the reaping, and tomorrow I know my sister will be picked and dragged away to the arena. Except I can't switch places with her this time.

But I can volunteer.

I hasten out the door onto the balcony, following them to the staircase. "Then let me go with you," I blurt out. Davos stops and turns again, but Stannis merely slows his pace as he glances over his shoulder. In my peripheral vision, I see Melisandre spot us from the other side of the courtyard and start drifting down the stairs, which rattles me but reminds me of a point I can make. "Gale said you seemed like you were trying to recruit. You need the men—"

"Yes, I need the men," Stannis replies, not so subtly putting emphasis on the last word.

"You've seen what I can do with a bow," I persist. "I could hunt, keep Shireen safe. And I can fight if I have to." He holds off his descent and finally turns to face me. My nerves are making me shake, so I grip the railing before he notices. "I've wanted to see more of Westeros anyway. Bring me with. I do have war experience, you know. And Shireen could use the company."

Maybe it's my imagination, but Stannis honestly appears to be considering the proposal. Or at least trying to search for reasons why it wouldn't make sense. Judging by Davos's expression, he doesn't think it's such a bad idea, and he's the Hand. Again, he looks to the king expectantly. And that's when Melisandre's voice rings out from below.

"I'm afraid that is impossible," she says, climbing one of the staircases to us. She joins Stannis at his side and gazes at me with her usual intense serenity. "The Lord Commander needs you here."

I furrow my brow at her. "He said that?" I ask.

"It was not Jon Snow who told me, but the Lord of Light," she answers, and takes a step toward me. "One day your place will be at Winterfell, Girl on Fire. Of that, I am certain. But for now, it is here. With Jon Snow." Reaching out, she cups my cheek in her gloveless hand. I'm too baffled by its unusual warmth to recoil, even when her wide red eyes are right in my face. "He will have need of you soon," she says confidently, "and you will serve a far greater purpose than you would with King Stannis."

Stunned, I back away from her touch. "Why do I get the feeling you don't want me there?" I say, replacing bewilderment with suspicion. "You're the one who insisted I was still the Mockingjay—"

"And who better than the Mockingjay for Jon Snow to have by his side," Melisandre returns, "when he unites the wildlings and the Night's Watch against a common enemy?"

I have no counterpoint for that other than silence, so she takes that as a sign that her message has been received, and smiles at Stannis as she leads the two men back down the stairs. I watch them go, clutching the railing harder. Her answer has done little to satisfy me. It's as if, in offering to join them, I have tried to cross into a different arena, and Melisandre the Gamemaker has gently dropped me back into this one. Denying me the opportunity to solve two problems at once. No, I cannot be there to protect Shireen.

And Jon…

A baby's coo makes me whirl back around. There, I find Gilly standing behind me and holding Little Sam. The lip-biting and troubled expression tells me she's overheard things again.

"You were going to leave," she says.

"Gilly—" I start, bracing myself.

"Why did you want to leave with Stannis?" she asks, not loud enough to disturb Sam but loud enough to scold. She looks more upset.

I guide her back into the empty dining hall, away from potential eavesdroppers. "Look. Gilly," I say with a sigh. "When I tell Jon the truth, he'll probably want to kick me out anyway. I figured I might as well have someplace to be."

Gilly shakes her head. "Oh, that's not true…"

"The whole reason he let me stay at Castle Black was because I brought him the news his uncle was still around," I point out. "What kind of warm reception do you think I'll continue to get when I tell him, 'Oh yeah, he's dead, actually'?"

"He let you through because you passed on the message," says Gilly.

"Yeah, and I left a pretty crucial part out," I mumble.

"Not the part where Benjen asked him to keep you safe," she fires back.

I cross my arms, hugging them to my chest. "I'm on this side of the Wall now. He's given me food and lodging for two weeks. He's done enough," I say.

"But you've cooked, and hunted, and—"

"Earned my keep. Yes, he's said that too," I tell her. "Once Stannis's army is gone, there'll be less demand for that. Fewer mouths to feed."

Gilly deflates, knowing each of her arguments are falling flat. "You heard the Red Woman out there," she says softly, hugging baby Sam close. "He still needs you."

This makes me falter. Perhaps Melisandre is right, and the portal – or even her Lord of Light – brought me to this place for a reason. Some sort of purpose I'm meant to serve. Something that's tied me to Jon Snow since the beginning, just as I went into my first arena with my boy with the bread. But I already know how that story ends.

"And when he doesn't need me?" I ask.

Unhappiness creeps across Gilly's face, which makes me feel bad. Maybe I'm letting what Gale said get to me too much.

"I'm not going anywhere right now," I say quietly. "Just trying to think ahead."

"Well… I think you're underestimating him," Gilly replies, turning and walking with me to the kitchens.

I try for a smile, wishing that I could believe that. Peeta was warm, and kind, and understanding, and my confession still left him cold and hollow. But it's like I told Gale, and I must continue to tell myself. For better or for worse, Peeta is not Jon, and Jon is not Peeta.

"Maybe," I say, and follow her inside.

Shireen and I don't see each other again until supper. I catch her in the dining hall before she needs to go sit with her parents, and she still looks a bit teary-eyed as she tells me what I already know. Selyse told her as soon as I left the room, kept her busy making preparations to leave and ordered her not to bother me while I was working in the kitchens. I can't help but glare in the queen's direction when I hear this.

"Father already stayed two days longer than he wanted because I asked it of him," Shireen admits. "Ser Davos gave the order. We're going."

"I know," I say, wiping away some of her unshed tears with my thumb. I used to worry about touching the greyscale side of her face, but she's assured me it doesn't hurt. "I'll sing some of your favorite songs at dinner, okay?"

"Okay," she agrees. When she wanders off, I notice Gale watching us from a table of Baratheon soldiers and match his stare challengingly. It's a good thing he's made some friends – or acquaintances that tolerate his presence – because I'm not sitting anywhere near him.

Since Stannis's men know they're departing Castle Black in the morning, tonight they flood me with requests to sing their own favorites instead. "A Cask of Ale," "Fallen Leaves," "The Maids that Bloom in Spring," a couple of war songs I know by now, and some of my father's songs that they like. I have to admit, I'm embarrassed to be singing in front of Gale like this. It's not a side of me he's seen very often, and going by his expression, I'd say he's not enjoying the performance quite as much as the rest of the men. But I force myself to ignore him, to tune him out as the hall fills with boisterous drunken voices joining me in a chorus of "The Bear and the Maiden Fair."

One singing soldier gets up and spins me when the girl in the song proclaims she'll never dance with the bear, and I'm laughing as I sing, and I see Shireen laughing too. From his council seat, he's not singing along like she is, but even Jon looks amused. I'm happy, even just for this moment as I let myself forget. Between songs, I activate my camera to preserve the rest. Not for Beetee, but for myself.

By the end of the meal, I run out of time to sing the ones Shireen loves. I stop her as she's leaving the dining hall and apologize, but she assures me it's all right. Even so, I make sure to promise her before Selyse herds her to the Night's Tower that I'll see her later and sing them to her personally. Her mother is all too anxious to draw her away from me, but Buttercup crosses her path along the way and Shireen picks him up, hugging him for comfort. I can only stare at Buttercup as his mashed-up face pokes over her shoulder, meet his rotting squash eyes, and silently command him to be extra loving to her this evening.

But when I turn around, I witness a sight more upsetting than Shireen being taken from me, and far more disturbing than Buttercup.

It's Gale and Jon, walking away from the dining hall staircase side by side. They appear to be discussing something. A ripple of unease courses through me, causing my legs to practically start moving on their own to follow them. Nothing good can come from Gale and Jon talking alone.

Unless Jon is trying to convince him to walk out one of Castle Black's gates. I slink after them through the crowd, hopeful.

"Yeah, I heard. The, uh… 'Songbird of Castle Black,'" Gale says, and scoffs.

Jon barely looks his way. "You don't approve," he notes.

"It just seems a little demeaning, is all," says Gale, in that passive-aggressive mumble of fake humility that's fooling no one. He's agitated and it's making him bolder. "I mean, back home she was the Mockingjay and now you've got her singing like some sort of pet canary."

"No one's forcing her to," says Jon. "She does more than enough by hunting for us. She can stop singing if she wishes, but she seems to enjoy it." There's a pause before he adds, "And aren't mockingjays songbirds as well? She told me her father used to sing to them."

Gale breathes in sharply through his nose. "No. They're not just songbirds," he says tersely, and then huffs out a slow sigh. "I don't think you have any idea how important she is. What she was to Panem."

Apprehension climbs up my stomach like a ladder, clutching at my chest and throat like rungs. I keep following, but slow down suddenly when Jon does.

"I'm not sure it matters if she has no intention of returning," he says after a moment. Inwardly, I cheer; at least I have Jon on my side in this. "You know her quite well. Katniss says you were friends since she was twelve."

"Yeah, our fathers worked in the coal mines together. Died in the same accident," Gale tells him. "Later that year, I found her in the woods, inspecting my snares. We started hunting together after that, trying to keep both our families fed." He scoffs out a weak chuckle, reminiscing. "Imagine, this… skinny little twelve-year-old, practically swimming in her father's hunting jacket, sneaking under District Twelve's electric fence and hunting in the forest every day to make sure her mother and sister wouldn't starve to death."

Even Jon laughs a little, probably trying to picture it. Not that he needs to stretch his imagination much; the jacket is still too big for me. "I would've liked to have known her then," he says, almost wistfully.

Gale says something in reply, but I don't hear it because I'm too busy trying to imagine Jon Snow six years younger in our woods. I just hear Jon chuckle again.

"That doesn't seem to have changed," he says, looking over at Gale with a grin.

I wrinkle my brow, frowning at his back suspiciously. What hasn't changed? But gradually the mirth seems to fade from him. He turns his face from Gale, squares his shoulders, and picks up the pace again.

"So, if you two were so close, why is it that she's never mentioned you before?" he asks, his tone clipped and somewhat cooler. "Why is she so angry with you?"

This time, Gale is the one who slows down. My heart does the opposite, pounding faster as it leaps to my throat. I know what he's going to say even before he says it. His head lowers, and the words come out in a shameful whisper. "Because I'm the reason her sister's dead."

Jon stops altogether, freezing in his tracks and swinging around to gape at him in horror. I quickly duck behind a wooden beam so he doesn't notice me, but it might not have been necessary. His eyes, wide with a mix of astonishment and outrage, are fixed solely on the man standing before him. The man who has essentially just confessed to killing my little sister. And as I watch, a look of ghastly understanding spreads across his face.

"You were in the Hunger Games?" he says. A question and a statement – and the last thing I expected to come out of his mouth.

Gale reels back with a blink, nearly rendered speechless in his confusion. "What?" is all he gets out.

"You were the winning tribute," Jon persists accusingly. "The year her sister went in."

"The year her sister went in?" Gale repeats, right as I realize my mistake and resist the urge to rake my fingers down my face. "Wait, what did Katniss tell you about that?"

"She did mention you," says Jon, still brimming with epiphany. "She said your name was in there forty-two times, but I never—"

"Hold on. You've got it all wrong," Gale interrupts. "Prim and I were never in the Games. Katniss was."

I slap a hand to my mouth to trap the ragged breath that almost escapes me. Jon stares at Gale uncomprehendingly, brows knitting together, eyes searching as he tries to make sense of it. He does a half-shake of his head. "The reaping – she told me Prim's name was drawn—"

"Yeah, it was, but then Katniss volunteered for her!" Gale says incredulously. He looks around to see if anyone's overheard him, and I instinctively retreat another half-step behind my wooden beam. I don't know why I do this, I should be charging out there right now and stopping him before he can say another word. But instead, I am frozen, unable to tear my eyes away from Jon as I study his reaction.

Jon lowers his gaze, forehead still bunched up in thought. After a few seconds, his face clears, and he breathes out a little puff of air. "She was in the Games," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world and he can't believe he missed it.

"Twice," says Gale.

Instantly, Jon looks back up. "Twice…?"

"She and Peeta won the 74th Games, and then the next year—"

"They reaped the victors for the Quarter Quell," Jon finishes for him, understanding taking over once more. But then his eyebrows shoot up again in surprise. "Wait, Peeta? Peeta Mellark? Her – fiancé, Peeta?"

"That's the one," Gale confirms wryly. "Their engagement was more of a… result of the Games. But he was her district partner, not me. Both times."

"But they both won the Games? I thought only one could—" He cuts himself off in realization. "There was a rule change that year."

"Yeah, Peeta had a hand in that," says Gale. "During the pre-Games interviews, where the host talks to each tribute, he confessed his love for her in front of everyone. Got the entire audience rooting for them. The 'Star-Crossed Lovers of District Twelve.'"

I feel a painful twinge in my chest at the way he says it. With an air of importance, but unmistakable undertones of the truth that lies beneath.

Jon hears it too. "They didn't really love each other, then," he says, but he sounds questioning, doubtful. "It was… an arranged marriage of sorts. It wasn't real."

"No, it was real," Gale replies, and his firm voice muffles the dry half-sob that threatens to choke me as Peeta's real or not real echoes in my mind. I clamp my palm harder against my mouth, the only weapon I have against stifling the emotions building up inside of me. "It was always real for Peeta. For Katniss, at first it was what it's usually about with her. Survival, keeping the people she cares about alive. But he won her over. Maybe it was in the Quarter Quell, the way he was willing to give up everything for her. That's when she realized." Gale sighs, glancing away from Jon. "But I knew, in the first arena… when I saw her kiss him in that cave…"

He mumbles something else, but I don't hear it, and I don't think Jon does either. His lips part slightly and he looks away too, putting a hand to his mouth before dragging it down his beard.

At this point, I've resolved to absolutely never leave from this hiding place, when suddenly Jon frowns in bemusement. "You saw her kiss him?" he repeats. "How did you see her kiss him if they were in a cave?"

Gale winces briefly, before a different expression takes over his face. Resignation and something else. "They televise the Games," he explains. "Every aspect of it. The reaping, the chariots, the interviews, and the Games themselves. There's cameras everywhere – tools that let you see what's happening, let people watch from the Capitol or at home in the districts so when their children die, they don't miss a moment. The arenas – they're not like amphitheaters, they're…" He digs something out of his pocket and holds a device in the palm of his hand, poking at it carefully. "Here. It's easier if I just show you."

It's such a brazen decision that I don't even grasp what he's about to do until I hear the beep, and suddenly there I am, projected into the air in a small vision of light. Jon backs up a step, eyes enormous, at the sight of sixteen-year-old Peeta and me climbing down from the Cornucopia after the wolf mutts disappear into the hole in the earth. The projection fuzzes and our onscreen selves speed to the lake, indicating that Gale has pressed fast-forward. And then it stops, and I hear a muted version of Claudius Templesmith's booming voice emanate from the device.

"—has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

I see Peeta get up despite his bloodied leg. I see my onscreen counterpart load my bow and aim an arrow at his heart. I see Jon's jaw drop at the sight of it, another shaky breath misting out as something flickers in his eyes, illuminated by the projection's glow.

Onscreen Peeta drops his weapon and I do too as our argument begins, me demanding, him pleading. One of us has to go home, but neither of us can bear to do the unthinkable. You can hear the desperation in my tone as I refuse to let him leave me.

"Then you shoot me," I hear myself say furiously. "You shoot me and go home and live with it!"

He rips off his bandage, but I drop to my knees and struggle to put it back on. I can smell the lake and the blood and it's like I'm back there again, the same fear and grief still there with the rest of the pain I've felt since then stacked on top of it, making it hard to breathe. It's so vivid I remember exactly what I thought in that moment – that if Peeta died, I would never really go home. I'd spend the rest of my life in that arena, trying to think my way out.

Which makes me wonder, if I had never come to Westeros, would I still be stuck in the Capitol? Stumbling through the sewer tunnels, or navigating the horrors of the City Circle?

It's only when I hear Peeta say, "We both know they have to have a victor," that I come back to myself, tears streaming down my cheeks. Just like the first time I heard it, indignation rises within me, and I angrily wipe them away. Now the Peeta on the screen is going on about how he loves me, and it's too much. As the arena Katniss grabs for the pouch on her belt, I launch myself out of my hiding spot and storm towards Gale and Jon.

"Gale!" I shout, making them both pivot with a start. I know I sound tremulous and watery, but I don't hesitate, smacking my palm down on the projection light as Jon backs up a couple of steps. Gale flinches in pain but I grab at his hand again and find the button that turns the device off. The vision shrinks into nothingness mere seconds after our onscreen selves bring the berries to our lips, the audio cutting off right at Claudius Templesmith's shouts to stop.

He starts to pull it away, maybe put it back in his pocket. "Katniss—"

"Are you crazy?" I snap, wrenching it from him and clutching it in my fist. "In front of Jon? In front of everyone?!"

"It wasn't in front of everyone—"

"Whatever happened to 'they could burn you as a witch,' huh?" I ask, electing to ignore the diminished crowd in the courtyard. It doesn't seem like anyone who remained is reacting, so maybe they didn't see or notice, or Jon's body blocked the view. Or they've seen me play Crazy Cat at night and thought the glow was the flashlight. But it doesn't matter to me if no one else saw it. What matters is that Jon did.

"You've shown him things too," Gale says, though he doesn't sound accusing but weakly defensive.

"Yeah, photographs!" I say. "Things that could easily be seen as portraits! Not the pictures that, you know, move!"

Gale swallows hard, guilt glazing over his eyes and creasing his features. "I just… needed him to understand what he was dealing with here," he says.

I glare at him. In my peripheral vision, Jon looks like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it and closes his mouth, simply watching us.

"Fine," I say, unclenching my trembling fist, and throw the device at Gale's feet in the snow. "Why don't you two go back into the dining hall, sit down at a table together, and share stories about me over a flagon of ale. Show him all the footage of the Games you want. I don't care."

Then, I turn to Jon, who I can already tell is looking at me differently. Like he's seeing me for the first time.

"Or maybe," I say more quietly, "the next time someone tells you they were responsible for my sister's death, you could consider not hanging on their every word."

The stricken remorse that fills Jon's eyes is almost enough to break me, but I can't allow myself to be shaken by this. Turning my gaze away, I move around him and walk straight for the courtyard passage below the rookery, leaving him and Gale behind.

Chapter Text

Most of the ravens are already settling down for the night when I make my way up the steps and whisk past their cages. They don't know what a frustrating few hours it's been since they last saw me, they only know that darkness means sleep. Save for a few hopeful caws from those who remember that humans mean food, nothing and no one else bothers me. In short, it is the most ideal sanctuary I can ask for without leaving through one of the gates. I find a place to sit and catch my breath, wiping at my eyes and temples as I try to collect myself. If I get to see Shireen tonight, I don't want her to see me like this.

In the peace and solitude of the rookery, it takes only a few minutes until I begin to clear my head. Though the anguish of seeing myself beg Peeta not to sacrifice his life for mine continues to send fresh shudders through me, the shock of everything else is receding. And somewhere in the haze of it, there is acceptance.

I cannot take back what Jon saw. Unless there is some sort of amnesia pill Beetee can send over, and he would certainly owe me that favor, Jon knows just about everything now. Everything except for Benjen and the whole otherworldly thing. I wonder what stunned him more – the revelation of me being in the Games, or the vision of it projected into the air?

Sighing, I bury my face in my hands as the regret immediately seeps in. I shouldn't have reacted like that, not to him. If I'm being honest with myself, I feel no direct anger at Jon. I just… saw another excuse to push him away and I jumped on it. Because Shireen may not be Prim and Jon may not be Peeta, but they all share one quality that has proven to be very dangerous to me, and that is kindness. I should have listened to the warning I gave myself before the first Games when I vowed not to let the boy with the bread too close, a warning that remains true to this day. Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there. It seems I have not learned from my past, because it has become alarmingly clear that Jon Snow has already begun to do this to me.

And I know that if I don't stop this now, I am going to let him. In more ways than one.

Though, this may be the hundredth time I've upset him or caused a problem in the last two weeks. Perhaps he'll get fed up with me. It's downright baffling that he hasn't already, especially in the last forty-eight hours. I wonder if he looks past all the drama and the coldness that I've subjected him to simply because he associates me with the message from Benjen. When you take that away, what do I have?

Detaching the mockingjay pin from my coat, I rotate it in my fingers. Over, and over, and over. With each turn, my agitation reawakens and grows, until I'm stuffing the pin in my pocket with my nightlock pill and fumbling for the switches to my microphone and earpiece.

Turns out the connection in the rookery is not spotty after all. I contact Beetee, and this time, he answers. "I'm guessing you're not calling to ask about the drone," he says ruefully.

"We had a deal, Beetee," I say, trying my best to keep my voice down as I pace through the aisles of bird cages. "My one condition for helping you test your little portal experiment was that it take me someplace I didn't have to be the Mockingjay anymore. A fresh start – that's what you promised me."

"I know, and—"

"You know what Gale just did?" I cut him off. "Out there in the courtyard – he showed Jon footage of my first Games!"

There's a sigh, and then Beetee mutters something to himself. "Katniss, I do sincerely apologize for this," he says. "When I reached out to him about the dragonglass, I did my best to keep things classified. I never thought—"

"—that Gale would start asking questions?" I say, trusting he can detect my verbal eyeroll.

"He wasn't happy when he discovered where I'd sent you," Beetee informs me. "He insisted on seeing some of the footage. The white walkers, Benjen, the battle at the Wall. Most of Mance Rayder's burning. When he decided he'd seen enough, he called the project 'enabling' and 'dangerous,' and told me we couldn't expose you to any more of this. He got it into his head that he had to go to Westeros himself, and I could not talk him out of it. Not when I warned him you wouldn't want to come back. Not when I admitted I hadn't yet learned how to make it a two-way trip. I believe his exact words were 'well, then figure it out.'"

I cringe, because I can just hear the belligerence in his voice as he says that. "Yeah, that sounds like Gale," I mutter.

"I had hoped that with the addition of the deliveries and passing on of new information, his visit would at least be of some use to you," he admits. "But it's clear that I overestimated his grasp on subtlety." This makes me snort, loud enough to disturb a few drowsy ravens. As I awkwardly move down the aisle, away from their scolding squawks, Beetee continues, "Out of curiosity, what part of your Games did he show?"

"Towards the end," I say. "When it was down to the two of us and they revoked the rule change. You should've seen the look on Jon's face when I pointed an arrow at Peeta's heart. Not to mention I only managed to switch it off after the whole thing with the berries."

Beetee makes a small noise of understanding. "It sounds to me like Gale wanted to show him your most powerful and rebellious moment in the Games."

"But why? Why would he do that?" I ask. "So that he'll cast me out and I'll have to go with him?"

"So that he doesn't underestimate you," says Beetee. "If driving a wedge between you and Jon was his main goal, he would've played one of your more threatening messages to Snow. But he didn't do that."

"He's probably doing it right now," I correct him dully, remembering how I threw the device at his feet. Despite my best efforts, a shuddering post-sob sigh escapes me. "What do you think he'll show him? 'You burn with us' or 'Turn your weapons to Snow'?"

"Neither," Beetee assures me. "Frankly, I'm surprised he didn't use the death of Rue, or your funeral for her. I would've thought of that as your most rebellious moment, as well as an example of what the Games were to you."

The very thought makes me bite the inside of my cheek in contempt. "He wouldn't dare use Rue against me. She was too much like Prim," I say, taking the mockingjay pin out and fiddling with it again. "Look, I think it's great there's a return option now, but I'm obviously not going anywhere with Gale, so can you just..."

"...Get him out of there?" Beetee finishes for me.

"I mean, is it up to you, or does Gale have to initiate it?" I ask.

"I'm afraid he will need to connect on his end to make a neat exit," he says. "And then there's the issue of him vanishing out of Castle Black into thin air."

I shrug it off. "Well, it wouldn't be the weirdest thing anyone's seen today," I mumble, absently sticking the pin in my sleeve. "I just… can't take much more of him right now—"

A familiar knock startles me. It's not just the sound of knuckles rapping against wood, it's the pattern that I recognize. The prelude knock I use on the door to the Lord Commander's quarters, being echoed back to me perfectly as if from a mockingjay's song. I turn with a gasp and see Jon standing at the top of the stairs, hovering uncertainly as he peers across the rookery at me.

"Beetee, I'm going to have to call you back," I say. Not tearing my eyes from Jon, I take out my devices and click them off, then make a show of putting them in my pocket. To ensure that I don't look like a lunatic, yes, but also I think I've heard enough from Beetee tonight.

Jon takes a moment to acknowledge this as an unspoken invitation, then approaches me slowly and opens his palm.

"Here," he says. "Gale asked me to give this to you."

In the shadow of dusk, I don't recognize what it is until the power button gives a faint, blinking glow. Hesitantly, I reach out and collect the projector from him. "He didn't show you anything else?" I ask, closing my fist around it.

Jon drops his hand at his side. "No, it didn't seem appropriate to…" He trails off, avoiding my gaze at first. When he does lift his eyes to me again, they're soft and contrite and still deeply confused, a deadly combination for any resolve I might've had to at least pretend to stay upset with him. "I shouldn't have seen anything at all. I'm sorry. I was encouraging him, asking him all those questions when…"

I'm partially tuning him out since it takes all my effort not to grimace in guilt. Why is he always the one to say sorry first? I'm the one who's invited drama into Castle Black, and I'm the one who made him worry when I went to the cave, and I'm the one who hasn't told him the full truth about anything, including his uncle. I can't let him keep begging for my forgiveness when I haven't even apologized for that yet.

"There's nothing you need to be sorry for," I tell him with a sigh. I realize now that if I am going to push him away, I should do it without making him feel like the bad guy. "It's not you I'm mad at. You just got caught in the crossfire. Besides, I don't blame you for having questions after what he told you."

Jon isn't deterred. "Your secrets are your own," he says softly. "If it was any of my business, it should come from you. I just…" He pauses, furrowing his brow as he tries to sidestep calling me a liar for the second time today. "…was under the impression that Prim died in the Games. And when Gale said he caused her death, I thought…"

"You thought he'd won," I say.

He stares steadily at me, no eye aversions this time, searching hard for something. "But you did," he says. "You volunteered for her."

What fuels the intensity of his gaze? Disgust that anyone would volunteer for the Games, knowing what they entail? Or is it admiration? I find that I cannot handle either at this level, so I turn away from it and start pacing restlessly down the aisle.

"She was only twelve, she didn't stand a chance," I say, more to the ravens and the boards beneath our feet. "She couldn't even hunt animals. I tried to teach her a couple of times, but whenever I shot something, she'd cry and want to take it back to our mother to see if we could heal it in time. And the twelve-year-olds, they never made it. The youngest victor in history was fourteen, and he was a Career. Careers trained their whole lives for the Games. They weren't supposed to, but..." I make a weak attempt at a shrug.

I hear Jon draw a few steps closer behind me. "Were there many tributes her age?" he asks. "When you went in?"

There's another underlying question beneath that one. How many twelve-year-olds had to die in order for you to win?

"Just one," I whisper, turning to face him with a feeble half-smile. "Rue."

Recognition glints in his eyes, confirming my suspicions of how long he was standing there before he knocked. "And no one volunteered in her place," he says.

I shake my head, remembering how when they asked, only the wind whistled in response. "She was from District Eleven. One of the poorer outlying districts," I answer. "Usually only the Career districts had volunteers. That's where most of the victors came from. Districts One, Two, and Four. For them, it was an honor. For us, it was a death sentence."

My voice wobbles there at the end, so I take in a deep breath and make myself keep talking so he doesn't notice.

"Rue impressed me, though," I say. "Before the tributes go into the arena, we have these private sessions where we display our skills to the Gamemakers, and they rate us on a scale from one to twelve, based on how well they think we'll fare in the Games. How dangerous we are, our odds of survival. Careers usually get eights, nines, tens… Rue scored a seven, and she earned it."

I smile, thinking of Rue flying across the room, jumping from each piece of equipment like the floor was on fire. Jon smiles too, albeit unsurely, and I wonder if I'm saying too much. But then, he's not getting to know me, he's getting to know Rue. And maybe if a Lord Commander in another world knows her story and who she is, then her death can mean something in both worlds.

"She was so bright, and brave, and quick. She survived the Bloodbath, she could run fast, hide, climb trees, jump from branch to branch," I continue, unpinning the mockingjay from my sleeve so I have something to hold onto. "She had this saying that she told Caesar – the host who does the interviews. 'If they can't catch me, they can't kill me.'"

Jon's reverent smile turns to more of a haunted grimace. "Unsettling thing to hear from a little girl," he says, looking thoughtful for a moment, but his troubled eyes still show understanding. "I take it you cared for her."

I manage a nod. "She was my ally," I murmur, my voice cracking. "My friend." Fidgeting with the pin, turning it in my palm and pressing my fingers against the thin needle, I force down my emotions in a rough swallow. "And they caught her. In a net. And put a spear in her."

Jon looks more sickened. "The Careers?" he manages, after a horrified silence.

"One of them," I confirm. "Marvel. District One. He died before she did, I made sure of that."

In my head, I picture my arrow piercing his throat as vividly as if it's happening again before my eyes. Without thinking, I clench my fist tightly – and the pin's needle that has sprung free sticks itself right into my palm. I open my hand with a shuddered gasp and ease the pin out. Almost immediately, a bead of blood wells up in its wake.

"Gods—" Jon curses under his breath and goes to get something to wrap it with. I want to call out to him, to tell him not to bother, but decide that it's useless trying and just suck some of the blood away. He comes back with some cloth they use for injured ravens and takes my hand in his, which was exactly what I was worried about. "Katniss, if you don't want to talk about the Games, I understand. You don't have to."

I avert my eyes as he tends to the wound, trying to distract myself from the sensations it's awakening in me. "I don't know, Gale kind of forced my hand back there..."

"Fuck Gale," Jon says, and I snap my attention back to him in surprise. He looks at me defiantly and keeps binding my hand. "Do you know why I came to the Wall, why I took the black?"

Still stunned, I mutely shake my head.

"Because there was no other place for me in the world," he says. "Winterfell would no longer be my home with my father gone, and my uncle was here. Only in the Night's Watch could bastards and youngest sons find honor and glory, a sense of purpose." Finishing up, he ties the cloth snug. "But I think you're more like Maester Aemon, with titles you were meaning to escape."

"It's a little of both," I say. "But don't recruit me just yet. I think I'm going to hold off on the vow of celibacy."

Jon laughs, which makes me laugh too. Of course, then we simultaneously realize it's a weird thing to say when he hasn't yet let go of my hand. Maybe it's my imagination, or everything else slowing down, but he seems to take his own sweet time releasing it. To distract myself, I secure the mockingjay pin back on my sleeve.

"So do you have any more questions?" I ask. "About the Hunger Games, or… anything?"

It is, after all, an ironically safer topic. There is nothing inherently romantic about the Games, and everything that was is a reminder of Peeta. Something that both of us need right now.

Jon deliberates for a few seconds, allowing me time to briefly panic over the possibilities and regret even offering. "What was your score?" he asks at last.

"Huh?" I look at him with a wrinkled brow, trying to blink away my confusion. "You mean how many tributes I killed?"

"No, your score," Jon persists. "The number, for your danger level. Nines and tens for Careers, seven for Rue. What did the Gamemakers give you?"

"Oh…" Now my body count, which was preemptively flashing in my head, has nowhere to go. Like it doesn't even matter to him. Though I suppose my score is a lot more telling. I chew on my mouth, turning away from him slightly, and mumble my answer. "…Eleven."

His eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "Eleven!" he breathes out, in a sort of incredulous chuckle.

"They tell everyone the tributes' scores afterward," I say defensively. "They probably gave me a higher score to make me a target in the arena. Pick off the biggest threat."

"What did you do to earn an eleven?" Jon asks, the corners of his lips turning upward into a grin.

He's completely unwavering in his intrigue, and it makes me grin too despite myself. "Well, I kind of shot an arrow at them."

Jon actually laughs out loud at this. "You shot an arrow?" he says. "At the Gamemakers?"

"My life was on the line!" I counter, which is strange to say considering I'm wrestling my own cheek muscles to quit beaming. "And they were paying more attention to a roast pig than to me! So I… got mad and shot the apple out of its mouth."

Jon's still laughing. "Why does that not surprise me?"

"It sure surprised the Gamemakers," I say, biting my lip to no avail since my own laughter keeps sneaking out. "You should've seen their faces. One tripped and fell backward into a bowl of punch." When Jon grins appreciatively at the mental image, I add with a semi-modest shrug, "Hey, my mentor said to make sure they remembered me."

"Remember you? Who's going to forget a sixteen-year-old girl pointing an arrow at them?" Jon says, in the midst of his renewed chuckling. "They'll take that memory to their graves."

I try and fail to hold back a grimace, knowing full well that some of them already have. Noticing, he seems to think he's touched a nerve and tries to change the subject.

"So, this… this was all two years ago," Jon says. "The 74th Games… the tributes who threatened to die together, that was you and Peeta." He looks hard at me. "You weren't really going to kill yourself, were you?"

Suddenly feeling very aware of the nightlock pill that's weighing down my pocket, I wrap my coat more tightly around me, as if Jon can see inside. "I was calling their bluff," I say. "It was the only way to ensure we could both get home alive."

Jon nods, accepting this, though his forehead creases with thought. "But where was he up until then?" he asks. "He was your district partner. Wasn't he your ally too?" His eyes soften again. "Other than Rue, it sounded like you were going it alone."

"I was, before she came along," I say. "Allies are risky in the Games, since as you saw, you don't want it to come down to the two of you. And they didn't announce the rule change until after Rue died." Then, a wave of defensiveness sweeps through me. "But Peeta was smart. He faked an alliance with the Careers to protect me. He'd been trying to save me from the start."

I remind Jon of Peeta's public love confession, which was meant to make me seem likable. "Some people tell me I need help with that," I add, which despite everything makes Jon grin. And then I tell him how our mentor, Haymitch, encouraged us to keep the star-crossed lovers thing going. How when the tracker jacker nest dropped, and the Careers that survived fled to the lake for relief from the stings, Peeta came back to me while I was hallucinating from my own. How he told me to run, and he stopped Cato from chasing me and got his leg cut by a sword for his betrayal.

"When the rule change was announced, I went looking for him," I say. "Found him by the lake, covered in mud and leaves. Painters are good at camouflage, wouldn't you know." Jon manages a faint smile, encouraged by my own. "He already had an infection from the blood poisoning. It looked awful. He could barely even walk on it. So we hid in a cave until we could figure out what to do."

There's a moment where we look at each other, and there's a mutual understanding between us. Yes, that cave. The one where I kissed him for the first time. The reason I was drawn to yours. And then he blinks and composes himself with a cleared throat. "Yes, I could see his leg didn't look too good," he says quietly.

"No, that was a bite from the wolf mutts," I clarify. "We'd already cured the blood poisoning."

"Cured it?" Jon says, perplexed. "How?"

"There was a feast being held at the Cornucopia. The big structure in the middle of the arena," I explain. "Not 'food' feast, exactly. Just things the remaining tributes desperately needed. An excuse to draw us out to fight. I knew there'd be medicine, so I went and grabbed it for him. Took a knife thrown at my head to get it." Instinctively, I touch my fingers to my forehead, though I know I'll find no noticeable scar.

Jon's features have been creased in concern since the mention of the feast, but his eyes open a bit wider at the last part. "I'm surprised he even let you out of his sight," he notes.

I scoff. "It's not like he was in any condition to run after me," I say. "I mean, he threatened to, but… I found a way around that problem."

"What did you do?" Jon prods, almost knowingly.

Chewing on the inside of my lip, I dance around meeting his eyes as I abashedly give my answer. "…Knocked him out with sleep syrup?"

Jon huffs out a scoff, looking a mixture of amused and resigned. "All right, now where did you get sleep syrup?"

I hesitate, because this is another moment of truth. "That's where the whole 'star-crossed lovers' thing comes in," I say, idly messing with the cloth on my hand. "If you entertain the audience, the Capitol, the sponsors send you gifts. Food, weapons, medicine." I purse my lips, remembering all the kisses I shared with Peeta, all the nights I spent curled up against his feverish form. It has not been lost on me that my bed in Castle Black would be a lot warmer with him. "They wanted a good love story, so I gave them one."

"But Peeta didn't have to pretend," says Jon.

My eyes find the floor. "In the cave… he told me he'd loved me since we were five, that he heard me sing in music assembly and knew he was a goner," I murmur. "I thought he was just saying that. You know, as part of the act."

Jon chuckles a little. "I assure you he was not just saying that."

I allow myself a tiny smile. "Yeah, I know. Turns out I'm just bad at noticing these things. According to Gale, I'm usually the last to figure it out." Mustering my courage, I lift my chin and meet his softened gaze. "I did love him though," I whisper. "Peeta."

"I know," he says, and the sympathy in his voice makes me feel unsteady. "You told me so. Yesterday."

Confusion sets in, rendering me amnesic. "I did?" I ask, searching his face and my memory.

The kindness that spreads across his lips reaches his eyes as they lock on mine. "Sometimes, you do things to survive, and then it becomes more than that," he says gently. "It becomes real."

The echoed words are meant to be comforting, I know they are, but they have the opposite effect. Instantly, tears spring to the corners of my eyes. He loved Ygritte, just as I loved Peeta, and I can see the flames of her pyre and the flames of the exploding Holo that took him along with the lizard mutts, and if I don't look away right now, Jon will see all that too when the tears start to fall.

I turn from him, refusing to let him see me cry. "Well, I can't say President Snow was as easily convinced as you were," I say, walking along the bird cages. "He paid me a visit before the Victory Tour, warned me of the unrest in the districts. Said they saw my trick with the nightlock for what it was – an act of defiance, not a lover's desperation." Letting out a slow breath, I continue, "Throw in a clear threat to kill off my family, and Gale's since we were seen kissing, and you've got me and Peeta spending the entire Victory Tour trying to convince the districts how in love we are."

"And that's why you planned to marry," Jon guesses, rather astutely. I look over at him, and he raises an eyebrow. "The public arranged marriage situation you mentioned."

"For all the good it did us," I say. "It didn't work. There were uprisings in the districts. We failed… hence the thing with the Third Quarter Quell."

"The reaping of the victors…" Jon paces closer to me, frowning as he considers this. "Were there any other victors in Twelve? Besides you and Peeta?"

"Just Haymitch," I say. "We had a victor in the 10th Games, but nobody knows anything about that year. Or what happened to her."

"So you were the only girl," he says. "That was—"

"Intentional?" I supply.

"You never had a chance," Jon says, his voice rising slightly in outrage. Then he glances at me and calms somewhat, as if reminding himself with my presence that I did indeed survive. "But the arena was destroyed that year. The victors got out."

"Some of them," I agree. "Finnick, Beetee, and I were rescued by the rebels, brought back to District Thirteen. But Peeta, Johanna, and Enobaria were taken prisoner by the Capitol."

"And that's when Snow…" Jon tries to think of the word, then gestures vaguely, "…did something to his mind."

I nod. "Hijacking. He used tracker jacker venom, and fear conditioning, to… change his memories of me," I say, making a mental note to at some point write down a better explanation. "We rescued him and the others a month later, but only because Snow let it happen." Nervously, I massage my throat at the memory. "Like he said. 'It's the things we love most that destroy us.'"

Hearing them the second time around, the words seem to disturb him more. A silence falls between us for a few moments, interrupted only by caws and the creaks of wooden floorboards as he paces. Then he turns to me with a puzzled frown.

"But what I still don't understand…" he starts to say, then falters, looking disconcerted. "If Prim wasn't killed in the Games, how did… how did Gale cause her death?" He approaches me cautiously, closing the distance between us, and lowers his voice. "What really happened to her?"

I swallow hard, steeling myself because I don't think I'll be able to walk away this time if I cry. But after taking a few breaths, a few seconds to collect myself, I look up at him once more. And I find something else beneath the hurt, realize this is something I never got the chance to share with Peeta. Or with anyone except Buttercup. Not just the loss of Prim, but the anger I feel towards Gale.

"Some people will do... anything, to end a war," I whisper. "Sacrifice themselves, or other people. And when you turn a hunter into a soldier, well, those snares and traps start being used for humans."

I tell him about Gale's concept of the hummingbird trap, the weaponizing of fear and compassion. Scaring prey towards an even bigger threat, or baiting the intended target by endangering their offspring, or luring them in with food, water, and safety. I tell him about President Alma Coin of District 13, and how Gale shared his ideas with her, got along with her a lot better than I did, even though Coin generously allowed Prim to train to become a doctor – a medic, basically a maester, at the age of thirteen. And I tell him about the mission to kill Snow.

"So, nine months ago, we were in the Capitol. The war had reached its peak," I say, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. "Coin sent Peeta in to join us, she knew he was still too unstable. Probably hoped he would try to kill me again, which he did. But then, in the sewers… well, you know how that ended."

Jon confirms with a nod. "He sacrificed himself for you," he says, brows furrowed as his eyes search mine.

The way that he says it resonates in my chest with a tremor, jolting me back to the epiphany I had when I was playing Crazy Cat in the bunker while the missiles were still firing on us in Thirteen. The realization that I was Buttercup, and Peeta was the light I was chasing, the thing I needed to secure. I knew then that if his light went out completely, I would be devastated, disoriented, but I'd be released from the hold Snow had on me. I'd be free to move on to something else. Which was exactly what happened, there in the cellar beneath Tigris' shop. I emerged from my pile of furs, coaxed out by comforting words from Finnick and Cressida and Gale, a sympathetic touch from Pollux. I heard Finnick's words, knew what Peeta would say, knew I had to make his death mean something.

"And that was all the motivation I needed," I say. "To go kill Snow."

He doesn't flinch too terribly when I tell him this, but he does look conflicted and a little confused, probably because he read the pages and knows Snow died from laughter, or trampling. Allegedly. It could easily be another one of my lies. He still needs clarification, so I tell him what happens after. How after three days in hiding, we received news that the rebels had broken through, and the Capitol citizens were heading toward Snow's mansion where he was offering shelter. How Gale and I disguised ourselves, slipped into the crowd, and made our way to the City Circle. How the rebels started firing and men, women, and children were falling, and in the chaos I lost Gale to the Peacekeepers.

I don't mention the way Gale looked at me when they started dragging him inside, or the fear that froze me in place as I expected him to bite his nightlock pill free and die before my eyes. Or the confusion when he didn't, the panic as I was running away, wondering if he'd lost it and I was supposed to have shot him. Instead, I skip to the barricade around the mansion. The pen filled with Capitol children. Snow's human shield.

"And then—" I falter, exhale slowly. "There's no way to explain hovercrafts to you, so you'll have to take my word for it. Just picture a large, metal-looking beast flying overhead, marked with the Capitol's seal. Dropping these things from the sky. The kids were reaching for them – parachutes, they're usually gifts. Five seconds later, about twenty of them explode." I take out the projector again, examining it. "I could show you, but I don't think—"

"No, no," Jon says, closing my fingers quickly over the device. "You don't – neither of us needs to see that." His voice is strained. He may not know about hovercrafts, but explosives in some way, shape, or form are probably universal. Or, multi-universal.

I'm relieved, even though it might be easier if the projector could take the story-telling burden off my shoulders. Thanks to Snow, I know it aired live, but I've never wanted to watch the footage. Even so, I keep the device clutched in my hand. "People came running. Peacekeepers and rebel medics alike. Trying to get to the children who were still alive, to help them," I say, my voice growing more and more subdued. "And then I saw her. The long blond braid. The untucked shirt forming a ducktail. Covering one of the kids with her coat."

"Prim," Jon says quietly. His eyes take on a haunted look, as if he's there in the City Circle himself, seeing the very ghost of her.

"I pushed through the crowd, I was trying to get to her, I'd almost reached the barricade…" I take a breath and find Jon holding his own. He knows what's coming next. "She finally hears me yelling for her. She looks up, I see her lips form my name… and that's when the rest of the bombs go off." I look at him meaningfully. "A two-tiered explosion."

The horror is still there, carved into his face like stone, but revulsion slowly gives way to understanding. "The hummingbird trap," he says, in that hushed rasp of his. "Gale."

I turn away, feeling unsteady, and pace a few steps before clutching at the edge of a wooden table for support. "She never should have been on the front lines," I say in a huff, bracing myself against it. "She was compassionate, she was capable, but she was thirteen. She wasn't a soldier. She shouldn't have been anywhere near a battlefield. But Gale designed the bombs, and Coin put her right where she wanted her, and I lost my sister." Before I can help myself, this slips out: "And now it feels like I'm losing her all over again."

The floorboards creak as Jon's footsteps come near. "Is that why you wanted to join King Stannis?" he asks, and I glance up with half a gasp. He manages a guilty half-smile that's more of a pitying grimace. "Overheard Ser Davos asking him if he had reconsidered your offer."

My heart tumbles in my chest. He knows I tried to flee. I drop my gaze and pick at the cloth he wrapped around my hand.

"Rue loved music too," I murmur. "She sang to the mockingjays, used them to signal, called them her special friends. And Prim loved that stupid cat." Despite everything, I give a weak laugh, echoed by Jon as he leans against the table next to me. "She's just so much like them. And I… can't shake this feeling that something terrible is going to happen to her."

"Stannis won't let anything happen to her," Jon says. "She's his daughter. His only living heir. He'll ensure her every safety so that if he falls on the battlefield, she'll be seated on the Iron Throne in his stead. I promise you, he'll protect her."

I want to believe him, I do. But I know better. "You can't protect anyone in an arena," I say to the floor. "I trusted Gale to protect my family. We promised to protect each other. Here's what that kind of promise is worth."

Pulling up my coat sleeves, I show him exactly what I showed Shireen. The pink patches and swirls he got a glimpse of in my room just three nights before. The blotches, the scars, the unmistakable shine of a once blistering burn.

"I couldn't reach her in time," I tell him. "But as you can see, I got pretty close."

Jon stares at my arms, appalled at the sight, reaching out as if to touch but thinking better of it. His fingers hover in the air, an inch away from grazing the mottled skin. I see his jaw clench briefly, see him swallow hard as he studies the burns. "If I had known that he did this to you…"

"I don't know if he did. If the bombs were his," I say, rotating my arm to display more of the effects. "But they might've been. And I can't forgive that."

Finally, he looks back up at me. "Is that why the Red Woman called you 'Girl on Fire'?" he asks.

"No, that's…" I bite at my lip, unsure. "It was a nickname I earned during the Games. Before we go in, we're supposed to make an impression, so… my stylist, Cinna, since I'm from the coal-mining district, he made me dresses with flames on them." Jon's eyebrows jump up. "Fake flames," I clarify.

"Oh," he says, sounding thoughtful yet casual. Too casual. His gaze flicks toward the projector consideringly, then back to me.

Realization hits me quick. "You want to see, don't you?" I say, slipping a note of playful accusation into my tone.

"It's in there?" he asks, sounding curious and almost hopeful. Then he gives a sheepish chuckle. "Sorry, perhaps now's not the time…"

"Come on, I've got to keep some of the mystery alive," I say teasingly, securing the projector in my pocket. We share a grin, and for a fleeting moment I feel better. Of course, that fades when I look down at my arms and remember what we were talking about. "But no," I say, rolling my sleeves back down, "this was just… painful irony."

Jon purses his lips, sneaking one last glance at the burns before I cover them back up. "With a particular emphasis on 'painful.'"

I shrug. "Now you know why when you asked about Gale, I said it was complicated."

A scoff from Jon. "I'd say that's a bit of an understatement," he says wryly, and makes a face. "He certainly has some nerve, thinking I'd burn you as a witch."

"Yeah, as far as burning Everdeen girls goes, he's the one who's two for two," I mutter under my breath.

Jon's eyes widen and he coughs out a scandalized breath, shaking his head as he looks away to hide his conflicted expression. "Gods, Katniss—!" he says, probably trying not to laugh.

"Sorry," I say, and press my lips together to contain a guilty grin. "I thought you were used to my brand of humor by now."

He scoffs again in disbelief, but eventually turns his gaze back on me. "Still catches me by surprise sometimes," he admits, albeit with a light laugh.

"Well, I've got to cope somehow," I counter, inclining my head with a half-shrug. "Imagine having to live with the fact that the last person you kissed had a hand in your brother's or sister's death."

Naturally, my mind goes straight to Roose Bolton, and I assume Jon's does as well. Which is why I'm a little floored when he looks contemplative. "…Do brothers of the Night's Watch count?" he offers after a moment.

It gives me pause, because I have to think about this. "Ygritte?" I ask, blinking in surprise. And then it hits me. "The battle, with the wildlings…" He just looks at me, doesn't name any names. Maybe he doesn't even know. They lost fifty men that night. I release a slow puff of breath into the air, blowing some hair out of my face, and lift the corner of my lips in a half-smile. "We sure know how to pick them, don't we?"

Jon laughs weakly. I glance over at him, wondering if I've spoken ill of the dead. Our eyes find each other, and an unshakable thought creeps into my mind that there is an easy fix to this problem. A sensible solution for both of us, here and now. Simple. Obvious. Reasonable, and at the same time, completely mad.

And maybe it's a trick of the faded light, but I see his gaze fall to my mouth…

I draw back from him, hastily arranging my features into some semblance of indifference. I've practiced it for years, so it shouldn't be this hard. I can only hope he can't hear my heart pounding in alarm. "I should… go find Shireen," I whisper. "Promised her a song."

Jon barely nods before I drift past him and make for the stairs. I'm almost there, walking fast, when I hear his voice call after me.

"The Night's Watch hospitality has its limits," he says, which brings me to a stop. I whirl around and look at him questioningly, but he only gives a faint smile. "Let me know if he bothers you again."

I return the smile as best I can, then swiftly resume my escape from the rookery as I try to regulate my breathing. Because that right there – what that almost was – is the exact opposite of pushing him away. If I let it go that far, there's no coming back from that.

Besides, maybe there is only one thing worse than kissing someone who killed your sister. And that's kissing someone named Snow.

Chapter Text

Shireen finds me before I can find her. I've gone back to my room to clear my head and retrieve some things when I hear a light knock on my door. When I open it, there she is, tearful and slightly tremulous in body and breath, with Buttercup skulking at her feet.

She stares up at me, something more than tears sparkling in her blue eyes. A hopeful question. In answer, I wave the flashlight.

That's all she needs to fling herself forward, gasping out a choked-back sob as she wraps her arms around me. I hug her back as best I can, letting the flashlight fall out of my hand as I press her close. It'll be fine, it just startles Buttercup as he's attempting to thread through our legs. My other hand's wrapped in cloth but I still use it to stroke her hair soothingly. It's long and black, and worn loose, freed from its meager braids before bed. I try to focus on this simple detail, use it as a reassurance of how different she is from Prim. How maybe she's a survivor like me.

But when I pull away, I see the eyes again, and my heart breaks a little.

I know I have to hold it together for her, so I pick up the flashlight and put on a brave face, and we go out into the courtyard for a game of Crazy Cat. Even if we should probably be quiet, it's good to hear her laughing. Buttercup must know something because he puts on his best performance tonight, slipping and diving and jumping at the flashlight's ever-elusive beam like it's his only chance to keep Shireen within his grasp, and not be stuck with me in the dark.

Eventually, we all tire of it, including Buttercup, so I click it off and set it next to us at the bottom of the dining hall staircase. Shireen snuggles up against me for warmth and Buttercup does the same to her, purring loudly. I can see him loafing on the step, eyes closed in contentment like he's the true princess here. At Shireen's request, I sing her the full Meadow song, and she rests her head on my shoulder when I get to the "close your sleepy eyes" part. I find myself wondering with a smile if she'll even make it through just this one song.

"Deep in the meadow, hidden far away
A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray
Forget your woes and let your troubles lay
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away."

I check on her out of nervous instinct. Her eyes have closed, but her breathing is steady and strong, not yet slowed by sleep. She heaves a sigh. The relief I feel gives me the strength to finish the last verse.

"Here it's safe, here it's warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you."

Deep inside, there's a hollow space in my chest where I almost expect to hear the cannon fire. Instead, it fills with the sounds of a winter wind, Shireen's breathing, and Buttercup's rattling purr. I feel a part of me relax as Shireen shifts in my arms to show that she's still awake but getting comfortable.

"You know who really loves that song?" she says dreamily, looking up at me like she knows a good secret.

I grin down at her. "Who?"

A mischievous smile plays across her lips. "Jon Snow," she says. "I heard him singing it to himself once, when he thought no one else was around."

"I didn't know he could sing," I say with a laugh.

Shireen's giggling in delight, probably gleeful just thinking about it. "He was a little embarrassed. He's actually very good," she informs me. "Another time, I heard him humming the river song. I don't think he's ambitious enough to sing that one."

Personally, it's not so much the fact that he can sing that surprises me, it's the fact that he does at all. I would've loved to have been in Shireen's place both times. "So how come I'm the songbird around here?" I say, feigning indignation. "Maybe your father's men would've liked to hear the Lord Commander's rendition of the Meadow song before they go."

We're both cracking up, Shireen positively kicking her feet at the thought of Jon Snow singing the Baratheon army a lullaby at supper. "I do love it too, though," she says, calming down but still grinning. "I like the river song best, but it sounds lovely coming from both of you."

"It was my sister's favorite," I tell her, letting my laughter fade as I privately cling to that difference. "I used to sing it to her all the time, especially when she was sick."

Shireen looks thoughtful. Her eyes fall on the medallion I'm wearing. "Is she the girl in your necklace?" she asks.

Briefly taking Shireen's arm pillow away, I lift the medallion from around my neck, open the locket, and show the pictures to her again. "That's Prim," I confirm. Buttercup stirs with a slight trilling sound at the mention of her name, raising his head curiously. Shireen sees this and carefully takes the locket from me, angling it so she and Buttercup can see the familiar image of his first owner laughing with our mother.

"You miss her, don't you?" Shireen says gently.

I look from her to Buttercup and back. "Which one of us are you talking to?" I ask.

She smiles. "Him, but you too," she amends. But then the amusement slips off her face as quickly as it comes. "How did she die?"

I think I stare blankly at her for a moment, because she blinks and starts to hastily assure me that I don't have to talk about it. Turning my head, I raise my eyes to the night sky. "I just don't think I should be telling you something like that," I answer, and try to add in a teasing tone as I glance back at her. "I mean, I'm trying to help you sleep. Not keep you up with scary war stories."

She laughs a little at first. "War stories?" she asks, and her voice loses its chuckle. "She was in the war? How old was she?"

"Thirteen," I say, which visibly stuns Shireen. "She wasn't a soldier or anything. But she was a healer just like our mother, and she wanted to help. So they put her on the front lines, and…" My words trail off there as I consider the princess. She has been hanging on every one of them. Remembering how she witnessed Mance's burning right along with me, I decide not to underestimate her, and I roll up my sleeve. "Remember how I told you about the fire that gave me this?"

She looks at the scars with renewed reverence and horror. "I'm so sorry," she whispers.

I lean my head against the stairs, closing my eyes with a sigh. "Me too," I whisper back. I don't know what else to say.

We let the silence linger for about a minute before she breaks it again. "But your mother's still alive?"

"She is. She's in District Four," I say.

"She's so pretty," says Shireen. I don't have to open my eyes and do a double take at the picture to believe her. My mother always looks ten years younger when she's laughing. The striking beauty that everyone once described her to be. "Do you write to her? I'm sure she misses you terribly."

I give a reflective hum that is equal parts dismissive and guilty. "I don't know."

"I know I would," Shireen replies.

My eyes open at that point, and I sense that Shireen has caught her mistake as well. It's not a matter of "would" anymore. She is going far away from me too. But I don't want to think about that, and I don't want her to think about it either. "She's very busy," I say simply, as an excuse. Which is probably true. Her hospital gets a lot of patients who are still dealing with the long-lasting effects of the war.

She settles back against me, but continues to study my mother's picture thoughtfully. "What's she like, your mother?" she asks. "What's her name?"

I can't help but laugh at her unending curiosity, even for the finer details. "Alyssa," I tell her.

Shireen gives a dramatic gasp, lifting her head to look at me with exaggeratedly wide eyes. "Alyssa?" she echoes. "Is your father's name Aenys? Or perhaps it's Baelon?"

I'm shaking my head, secretly pleased at her ability to bounce back like this. "Yeah, didn't you know? Aegon the Conqueror is my grandfather."

"Or Rhaenyra is your niece," she says, giggling. "You must be very old."

Rolling my eyes, I wrestle with a grin. "It's Alyssa, for the alyssum flower," I say, giving her a playful poke. "Her parents and grandparents ran an apothecary shop. So that side of the family has a tradition of naming their kids after flowers and medicinal herbs and stuff."

Shireen beams relentlessly. "But look at her hair!" she says, pointing. I follow her finger, noting that the lighting in the photograph has made my mother's platinum hair look paler than it really is. It's failed to capture the hint of gold you see when it hits the sun, so she appears to have a shade closer to the silver that Targaryens are known for. Shireen leans in and says confidentially, "I bet you're secretly part Targaryen. Her family fled to Panem after the fall of their house and she just never told you."

I scoff with more laughter, shaking my head at her. "Secret Targaryens! Listen to you…" I say, taking the locket back and closing it. I'm tempted to debunk this by revealing the truth of where I'm from, but it seems a shame to one-up her like that. The creative wonders of her mind are already making me feel better.

Though if I really wanted to humor her theory, I could, since my mother's mother was adopted after being found abandoned deep in the woods as a baby. Not realizing the gap between our worlds, I know Shireen could easily run with that, and her idea would be a lot more exciting and less grim than the truth. Which is that dumping newborns off someplace, particularly the woods, isn't exactly unheard of in Twelve, or in any of the outlying districts. Even Gale's mother Hazelle has told me her own grandfather was left in a cardboard box on the side of the road. He was born over a decade before the Hunger Games, but the fact remains, if you never wanted children or you didn't want to get attached just to risk losing it to the arena, that was one way to opt out.

It always seemed a bit crueler to me than just avoiding love and marriage entirely. And pretty stupid, if you ask me. If you ditch your child in the woods, there is always the chance that they will get lucky like Grandma Rosemary and be found by hunters or Peacekeepers before the carnivores or exposure gets to them. They say she was left with a blanket and some mementos, her birth parents' way of making themselves feel better. It never fooled me. They had to have known the risks. And when you live in District 12, the smallest district in Panem, you've got to know that if your kid does get rescued, you will see them again at each reaping. If they are like Grandma Rosemary, you will see them survive each reaping. And you will watch them be raised with love by another family and know that you were the very first person to ever put their life in danger.

I've wondered if, growing up, Rosemary ever wanted to know which childless couple left her to get eaten by hungry animals. On the other hand, I have nothing but respect for my great-grandparents, the Ulbergs. They saw a child that had been forsaken by her parents, and they took it upon themselves to raise her, willingly bringing her into their lives with the knowledge that in a few years she could be ripped away from them.

Adoption. The word flashes like a beacon in my mind. Essentially, it's volunteering to become a parent. And in the time of the Hunger Games, I think that was a very brave thing.

Of course, their reward for having their daughter survive the reaping at age eighteen was a granddaughter by next spring. Luckily for my mother, Rosemary had helpful parents and a new husband with good intentions.

"I think my mother's maiden name was Pottinger, actually," I say matter-of-factly. "But maybe it was Targaryen. I could've just been hearing it wrong." As Shireen laughs at this, I lean and whisper, "Don't tell your father, all right? I don't want to have to fight him for the throne."

"I won't, I promise," she says, giggling some more.

Unthinkingly, I mutter, "I'm already fighting him for you."

She looks over at me, still smiling faintly, but it changes to something more wistful. After a moment, her eyes start to look glossy. "I wish you were my mother," she murmurs.

My heart does multiple alarming things at once – skip a beat, jump to my throat, plummet to the bottom of my stomach, and break into pieces. I can only look at her silently, my mouth forming a small "o" of shock. Her mother…?

"Or that your mother was mine," she hastens to correct, probably going off the expression on my face, and chuckles at herself. "I know I'm nearly twelve and you're not that much older. But then we could be sisters. And your mother could come to Castle Black and work as a healer since Maester Aemon is still bedridden. We could all just stay here until the war is over, with Jon, and Sam, and Gilly, and…"

Her words are barely registering, as I am still reeling. First, at the fact that she is on the cusp of twelve – I think she mentioned hoping they'd take Winterfell before her "name day," which in Westeros is your birthday – and that's enough to give me all sorts of reaping day panic. But there's also the fact that she thought of me as "mother" before "sister." It would make sense that she simply doesn't know what having or being a sister feels like, or maybe I've just graduated in status.

At the same time, it's obvious that she feels little love from her mother, which deeply upsets me, and has upset me ever since I met them. My mother may have had her issues once, but she is no Selyse Baratheon. She never felt shame towards Prim and me, only herself for failing us when we pleaded for her. I can't deny that I've felt protective over Shireen every time I catch Selyse looking at her without any warmth, or jealous whenever she ushers her away from me.

It's not just that she looks like she could be my sister. I see her dark hair and blue eyes, and a thought sneaks into my head that if Peeta and I had a daughter, this is what she might turn out like. The singing girl with the kind spirit and the clever mind, who could charm her way into the coldest heart.

I think of the Ulbergs, who have set the precedent in my family for taking care of someone else's child. And then I think of the Baratheons, who are in fact still around, and actively trying to keep her with them. At least when it comes to me. The queen sure has come a long way from wanting to leave her behind in Dragonstone.

One thing this tells me, the one thing that I will admit to myself, is this. If I ever did make the choice to have a daughter, I'd want her to be like Shireen.

But that is something that I will not utter out loud, because I'm not looking to make either of us cry. So I tune back in to what she is saying, and muster up a smile. "You know, I think she'd like you," I tell her. "But it's a lot warmer in District Four than it is here in the North. Plus, it's closer to the sea."

Shireen breaks into a grin. "Where the north wind… meets the sea…" she starts to sing.

I laugh appreciatively and join in. "—there's a river—"

"—mother full of memory," she sings at the same time, and then we're both cracking up again.

"Mother. Of course, I should've known you were going for that," I say, still chuckling as I adjust my arm around her.

She just giggles again and snuggles close. "It's all right, you can finish the whole song."

So, I do. I try to get the grins out of my system, and I restart the river song. I can kind of understand the difference between this and the Meadow song, why Shireen likes it so much. The Meadow song, although bright and cheery with the associations of spring and summer, is meant to be sung in a hushed, comforting voice, to soothe sick or crying babies to sleep. With the river song, it's meant to be soothing too, but it's more like one of those lullabies that's telling a story, that has a message or a warning or a dark undertone, so I tend to sing it in a louder, clearer voice, as crisp as autumn or winter air. Perfect for Shireen, who loves substance in songs as she does a good book.

"Where the north wind meets the sea
There's a river full of memory.
Sleep, my darling, safe and sound
For in this river, all is found.

In her waters, deep and true
Lie the answers and a path for you.
Dive down deep into her sound
But not too far or you'll be drowned.

Yes, she will sing to those who'll hear
And in her song, all magic flows.
But can you brave what you most fear?
Can you face what the river knows?

Where the north wind meets the sea
There's a mother full of memory."

I usually end on a powerful note, which Shireen likes, but it's kind of late and I don't want Stannis or Selyse or Davos to come take her back to bed, so I do what my mother used to do and sing the last lines at a gentle whisper. "Come my darling, homeward bound…"

"When all is lost," she finishes softly, "then all is found."

Our voices fade off together, the last note getting carried into the night air, until it feels like all of Castle Black has gone silent.

And that's when I hear it. A familiar voice that cuts through the stillness. "Where did that song come from again?"

I glance up in dismay, and there's Gale, standing at the bottom of the staircase in front of us and looking chastened as he clutches the strap of his game bag.

"It sounds really familiar," he adds, and furrows his brow in thought. "Is it one of your dad's? Is it… Covey? Because I feel like people from the merchant sector used to sing it too."

Oh, this is an unbelievably calculated move on Gale's part. Catching me when I'm vulnerable, when I'm with Shireen. We were having a good moment, and I don't want to ruin it, so I'm forced to tolerate him while I smolder beneath the surface.

Shireen, on the other hand, is intrigued. "What's Covey?"

I take a second to compose myself, before answering Shireen directly first. "It's an old group of nomadic musicians from District Twelve," I say. "Well, not from Twelve, they just got stuck there sometime after the first war in Panem when the Capitol banned travel between the districts. They used to do a lot of performances at the Hob."

"Turns out my great-grandfather and her grandmother were in it at the same time," Gale adds.

Irritation wells up in me. It's such an obvious attempt to connect us. For Shireen's sake, I make an effort to crush it back down. "Yeah, until it died out when she was nine," I point out.

"Still old enough to remember every one of those songs," Gale counters. To Shireen, he says, "Where do you think she learned them all?"

Shireen looks at me expectantly. "Your grandmother used to sing to you?" she asks with a smile.

I bite my lip. "Maybe a little. I don't really remember her that much," I say. "I just know they used to say she could memorize any song after she heard it once. So, she sang their songs to my father, and he sang them to me."

"What about the river song? Is that Covey or merchant?" Gale asks again.

I give a sigh, but disguise it as simple contemplation mixed with nighttime weariness. "Both, I guess?" I offer, and take some old advice from Cinna by turning most of my answer and attention towards Shireen. "My father learned the song from his mother. Mine used to hear it from hers. She'd usually be the one singing it alone since the line is 'mother full of memory.' So he'd sing the Meadow song in the spring and summer, and she'd sing the river song in fall and winter, but sometimes they'd sing the Covey version together."

I have to pause there, at what this brings back. My father would start it off with one of his mockingjay whistles, and I'd instantly know I was in for a treat. My mother would start singing the more spirited tune while he slowly joined in, humming or whistling or drumming his thigh during the parts that were supposed to be instrumental. It was their occasional duet that was a beauty like no other, magical in the way they'd look at each other. A cheer we all needed in the cold winter months. When he died in January, she disappeared into herself, and the life and the music left her. It took months for her to come back to Prim and me, but when she did, the river song was the first thing I heard her sing. The merchant version. Low and lovely and mournful.

"I think it's a Covey and a merchant song, they just sing it differently," I say. "Like with fairytales. Two variations branching from the same original source."

"Yeah, that makes sense," Gale says, nodding in agreement. "Because the Covey version has extra lyrics, right?"

Regarding him for a moment, I share a glance with Shireen before I turn back to Gale, deciding this is a nice opportunity to torture him. "How does that part go again?" I ask innocently.

He scrunches up his features in abject horror and trepidation, which pleases me greatly. We both know he cannot sing worth a damn and has hardly ever tried. But slowly, resignation takes over and the wrinkle in his brow becomes one of deep thought. "Uh, I think it's…" he says, and clears his throat. "Until the river's finally crossed—"

I snicker despite myself, because otherwise I will have to cringe and cover my ears. "—you'll never feel the solid ground," I finish for him. He stops, which is a mercy; if musical talent is hereditary, it's never been more obvious his great-grandfather played an instrument. "You had to get a little lost, on your way to being found."

As I remember it, my father's – and the Covey's – version is the livelier one. I could always tell from the way he sang it, with a bounce to his knee, that it was meant to be performed by a band or with at least one string instrument. Grandma Maude Ivory apparently inherited a guitar from her cousin who went missing, but I don't know what became of it. Sold or traded for food, maybe.

Gale manages an awkward laugh that's almost apologetic, then looks at me knowingly, which confirms one of the suspicions I have. Up until May of this year, I had very limited knowledge of the Covey, and I know Gale had even less. Then, when Hazelle Hawthorne returned to District 12 with her younger kids, she tagged along on a couple of Greasy Sae's visits, and they both started telling me more about them. Greasy Sae, whose late husband was Covey, was about Grandma Maude's age when the shows were banned from the Hob. That was well over sixty years ago.

Since then, they've faded from most of District 12's memory, except from our eldest surviving citizens, and of course, their family that remains. But even then, their tradition of naming themselves and their kids after one of their ballads and a color has been watered down too. The name my grandmother gave my father was Gary Green Everdeen – a nod to her cousin Lucy Gray – but my grandfather convinced her to lengthen it to Garrett, which is what everyone else ended up calling him. Now and then, my mother or his friends at the Hob would call him Gary. The same thing happened to Hazelle – her name was going to be Susanna or Sherry Hazel, like the color, but her grandfather Tam Amber modestly argued against it. So, they went with just Hazelle like the tree.

That Gale is even mentioning the Covey tells me he knows that we both know now. Sounds like his mother was passing along information to him, keeping him updated on me.

As if sensing my impatience and intolerance levels are rising once more, Gale clears his throat again. "So, have you taught her the valley song yet?" he asks.

Shireen perks up. "There's a valley song?"

She sounds so hopeful, my inability to disappoint her completely overpowers my will to ignore Gale. "How can I let you leave without teaching you the valley song?" I say, directing my smile purely at her.

The contents of Gale's game bag clink softly as he sets it on the ground and takes a seat on the steps. I pretend he's not there, focusing on Shireen as we both sit up a little and get more comfortable. The valley song is one of the songs I sang while I was in solitary confinement, so it doesn't take long to remember how it goes. I take a slow breath and conjure up the sweet, longing melody.

"Down in the valley, the valley so low,
Late in the evening, hear the train blow.
The train, love, hear the train blow.
Late in the evening, hear the train blow."

There's a glaze of distant wonder in her eyes as she listens to this new song. I don't think Shireen has any idea what a train is or why it's blowing, but she's entranced. Not at risk of falling asleep this time, just a faraway look, like it's carried her away to that valley. I glance across the courtyard at the castle towers, breathe in the night air, and begin the next verse.

"Go build me a mansion, build it so high,
So I can see my true love go by.
See him go by, love, see him go by.
So I can see my true love go by."

To Gale's credit, what he lacked during my performance at supper, he makes up during this one, still quiet but thoughtful instead of surly. He rests his chin on his fist and just listens, thinking hard about something.

"Go write a letter, send it by mail.
Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail.
Capitol jail, love, to the Capitol jail.
Bake it and stamp it to the Capitol jail."

The grounds of Castle Black sound just as they did from Mance's prison cell. A hush heavier than sleep has fallen over the world; save for my voice, the night is silent as the grave.

I think of Peeta and hope even the dead can hear it.

"Roses are red, love; violets are blue.
Birds in the heavens know I love you.
Know I love you, oh, know I love you,
Birds in the heavens know I love you."

The song ends, and only a cold wind picks it up, swirling through the courtyard and rattling the castles. Somewhere in the distance, the wood of a balcony or staircase creaks in protest.

After a few seconds, Shireen's eyes flick up at me. "I think I have a new favorite," she says, which makes me laugh. Considering her love for the river song, that must be the highest of compliments.

Gale chuckles too, softly. "Kind of get why hearing you sing this song was what made Peeta fall in love with you," he murmurs.

I try my hardest not to tense up too noticeably, but the combination of hearing him say Peeta's name, having him read my mind again, and any indication of love stings too much to sit still and bear. Fortunately, or perhaps not so fortunately, Shireen doesn't notice the shift. She moves slightly, herself, and looks at Gale in amazement.

"You knew Peeta?" she asks, fascinated. "Her baker knight?"

Gale laughs again, turning his head more towards her. "Sure did," he says, in the tone he uses for his siblings but with a hint of veneration that makes me ache. "He was a good guy. One of the bravest I ever met."

Hearing that coming from him, I can't put up with any more of this. "Did you want something?" I ask, as politely as I can manage, which is without clenching my teeth. "Because this was kind of supposed to be just Shireen and me, so…"

"Yeah, I, uh…" He considers Shireen for a moment, moves to pick up the game bag, then turns back to face me. "I just wanted to say that I know you're not leaving. I know… this is where you want to be now." Releasing a slow sigh of defeat, he hands the bag over to me. "So, I came to give you the rest of this."

I take the bag from him, albeit with some distrust, and look inside. "What is it?" Shireen wants to know, so I open it wider and let her see.

The mockingjay-engraved dragonglass dagger is in there, of course, but there's also a whole bunch of arrowheads made with the same material. I take out a rolled-up sheet of black leather and unfurl it, revealing more obsidian knives of various sizes tucked in its pockets. And not dragonglass, but just as useful, Beetee has provided extra incendiary and explosive arrows bundled carefully in spare parachute fabric.

Shireen's mouth falls open in pure awe. "It's beautiful," she says, glancing from the knives to the dagger still in the bag. "Is all of that obsidian?"

"You know it?" Gale asks. "I thought it was called dragonglass here."

She laughs, as if the question is a silly one. "Obsidian's what Maester Cressen always called it," she says. "We have lots of it back home in Dragonstone." Gesturing in at the dagger, she looks at me hopefully. "May I?"

I give her the go-ahead, warning her to be careful, and she gingerly pulls out the dagger to admire it. Then she gasps, which briefly fills me with terror. "The bird from your pin…!" she breathes, noticing the handle.

Meanwhile, Gale snorts light-heartedly, "Well," he says, "there goes my usefulness."

I'm so focused on the barely-twelve-year-old princess holding a weapon in her hands that it takes me a second to remember her words and understand. Dragonstone. Does it have enough obsidian for all of Westeros? Maybe, maybe not.

"So, I guess that means you'll be heading back to Two soon," I say, hardly veiling the hope in my voice. Either to give up on the obsidian or fetch some more. I don't care. Whatever makes him leave.

Gale's face pinches in doubt. "Yeah, about that…" he says slowly.

I hear it in his voice, what he means. Gale still has no intention of going back to Two, or even Panem at all. He's just as stubborn as ever. Nothing will make him leave Westeros without me.

My anger peaks, and the only thing I can do with Shireen here is expel it in a sharp huff. It's enough to make Gale notice and wince.

"I was kind of hoping we could talk…?" he tries.

Talk? About what? Hasn't he said enough? I am so tired of it, tired of him. I don't have time for this. "We can talk later," I say severely. "I told you, I'm with Shireen right now—"

"Oh, it's all right, I don't mind," Shireen assures us, putting the dagger back in the bag.

"I'm not just going to leave you out here on the steps, alone in the cold at night, while I talk to Gale," I tell her.

"I'll be fine sitting here for a few minutes," she says, and gives Buttercup's fur a stroke. "And I won't be alone. Buttercup and I can always play another game of Crazy Cat."

For a princess, she's terribly accommodating. The type of person who'd turn down the last groosling wing even if she was starving. I admire her graciousness, but the only one it's helping right now is Gale. I smile at her, before leveling him with a muted glare.

"Whatever you and I still have to say to each other is going to take a lot longer than a few minutes," I warn him. "If you're not going anywhere, we have all the time in the world. But Shireen's leaving tomorrow, and she has to be up by sunrise." I hold his eyes as my glare becomes a firm promise. "After she goes to bed, we'll talk. Later."

Gale looks at me for a long time, then nods. "Later," he echoes. He gets up and leaves us on the staircase, walking across the shadowy courtyard.

It doesn't take long after he's left for me to hear the sniffles and realize I've traded the Gale problem for an even bigger one. I attempt to make a joke, to whisper words of reassurance, but the reminder that we have hours left together, not including time for sleep, hits both of us hard and with a renewed vengeance. Though I try to appease her with more of her favorites, we barely make it through two songs, and soon I'm holding Shireen in my arms as she clings to me tightly, dampening my coat with the press of wet cheeks burrowing into fabric.

"I wish we could stay," she keeps saying. "I wish you and Buttercup could— Father and the Red Woman said—"

"I know," I whisper, hushing her and stroking her hair. "I know. I'm going to miss you. And after you take Winterfell back, maybe I can come visit you."

Her voice emerges, watery and muffled by my coat. "Will you bring Jon?"

I laugh, and it sounds shaky and sniffly. "I'll try," I say. "It was his home, after all." I don't mention that I'm not sure he can leave his post, or that I'll probably be coming that way after saying goodbye to Castle Black for good.

Minutes pass just like this, us holding on to each other as we sense the night growing later. "I don't want to go to bed," she mumbles, drained from exhaustion and crying. "I won't have nightmares again if I stay with you."

"Do you get nightmares a lot?" I ask. I'm sympathetic, but it makes me wonder what kind of horrors she's already seen.

"I used to, even when I was younger, but especially after the comet came," she says sleepily. "Ever since I met you and Buttercup, there's not been as many."

I smile at first, but curiosity overtakes me. "What comet?"

Shireen turns her head to look at me. "Don't you remember? It was a couple of years ago. Couldn't you see it in Panem?" she asks. "A blood red streak across the sky. The Red Woman called it dragonsbreath. She said… 'When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, Azor Ahai shall be born again amidst smoke and salt to wake dragons from stone.'" She gives a small, bashful smile. "We have stone dragons in Dragonstone. I used to dream they would come to life and try to eat me."

I can't help but laugh, and she does too. "The Red Woman says a lot of things," I tell her. "Comets are comets. Just space stuff passing by. They don't do any harm. There's this one that's visible in Panem, it goes by every seventy to eighty years. I saw it when I was your age, and the last time it had passed was the year my grandmother's older cousin was born."

She mulls over this with a mixture of enthrallment and uncertainty. "You don't think they're a bad omen?" she asks.

The question makes me hesitate, reconsider. The year I got to witness it – that was the year my father died, and my mother sank into a despondent haze, and Prim and I almost starved. It was also the year Posy was born, and the year Peeta gave me the bread and I learned to hunt by myself, but then it was the year I turned twelve and had my name put in for the reaping. As for Lucy Gray, well, the comet arrived at the beginning of that year, she arrived at the end of it, and they both ended up disappearing, but only one of them came back again.

"Nah," I say after a moment, privately thinking that my family's bad luck with one specific comet isn't what she needs to hear about right now. "In fact, it's probably good luck to see something so rare. The kind of thing you only see once in a lifetime. Though, I guess if you're really lucky, you could get to see it twice."

A grin stretches across Shireen's lips. "Maybe if you live to be as old as Maester Aemon," she jokes.

We both start giggling at this, both the feat of reaching such an age and the terrible irony of losing your vision by then, before the unwanted reminder of human mortality makes my laughter fade as the melancholy mood of tonight creeps back into place. I don't mean for her to pick up on it, but she does, and the twinkle leaves her weary eyes, replaced by the sheen of tears.

"I don't want to leave you," she says again, her voice cracking at the end. "The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner we have to say goodbye."

There's little chance of her sleeping in my room. We both know her father wouldn't hear of it, and her mother would pitch a fit. But I can't let her stay up all night either, even if I didn't have Gale to deal with after. We have only these last late hours, if that, and I know neither of us wants to waste it crying.

"I told you yesterday I'd teach you a new song," I remind her.

Her head shifts, and she looks up at me, daring to hope. "Wasn't that the valley song?" she asks.

"Gale suggested it. Doesn't count," I say, and let her settle into my arms again as I rest my chin on her head. "Just one more song."

And I know just the one.

It's old to me, and probably Covey, something my father would sing when I got nightmares. When I was afraid of the Games, when my birthday came around and I'd get another year older and start panicking in my bed as I realized I was that much closer to turning twelve, that much closer to having my name put in for the reaping. My father would come and sit down, hold me close as I've done with Shireen, and he'd sing this one song that made me forget, even for just that night, that anything else existed except for the safety of his arms and the warmth in his voice.

Breathing in slowly, I close my eyes and start it the same way he did. A soft, low, calming hum of what I'm sure was once an instrumental melody. Then I open my mouth and begin to sing.

"I remember tears streaming down your face
When I said I'll never let you go
When all those shadows almost killed your light
I remember you said don't leave me here alone
But all that's dead and gone and passed tonight."

My voice rises, fighting my own tears that threaten to spring up from memories of nightmares past, as I search for my father's strength, for whatever confidence he had in his own voice that made me feel like it really was going to be okay. I need it for me again, and for Shireen, for both our sakes.

"Just close your eyes, the sun is going down
You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now
Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound."

Swallowing a sob, Shireen buries her face more deeply into my coat. I wrap my arms more securely around her, rocking her gently like my father did for me, blocking out the rest of the world.

"Don't you dare look out your window, darling, everything's on fire
The war outside our door keeps raging on
Hold onto this lullaby even when the music's gone, gone.

Just close your eyes, the sun is going down
You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now
Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound."

Here, he used to howl the four- and three-note runs like a wolf or a ghost to make me laugh, but instead I sing them in a clear voice like Rue would, as if singing to her special friends in the trees. And I think of the creepy weirwood trees in the forest beyond the Wall, of the Old Gods they are sacred to, and wonder if they can hear me. If they're real.

Then maybe they can protect her.

"Just close your eyes
You'll be alright
Come morning light,
You and I'll be safe and sound."

Later, the only sound in Castle Black is my boots crunching across the snow-covered courtyard. Ser Davos must've sensed we would be out here, if he wasn't already awake and alerted by my singing, because he came outside and fetched Shireen not long after I finished Safe and Sound. She had all but dozed off by then, but she still briefly clung to my hand before letting Davos gently guide her towards the King's Tower. He didn't say anything about me keeping her up this late, just gave me an almost pitying look as he encouraged Shireen to say goodnight.

"Goodnight, Katniss," she'd said tiredly, and reached down to collect Buttercup when he hastened to follow her.

"Goodnight," I'd whispered back. And then they were gone.

Now, dragonglass bag strap slung over my shoulder, I trudge down the west courtyard, looking for Gale. I suppose we should've agreed on a meeting place. Maybe he went to one of the places I dragged him aside when he first came here. Crossing the courtyard passage under the raven pen, I head into the east courtyard, but don't go more than a few steps before I find him leaning against another staircase on this side of the dining hall building. He sees me and meets me halfway, and we step aside closer to the maester's quarters.

"I'm giving you a chance to talk, so talk," I say, dropping the game bag at my feet. "Get it all out now. Whether or not you leave tomorrow, I don't want to hear any more from you by then."

Gale chews on his lip. "I didn't come here to harass you, Katniss—"

"Could've fooled me," I cut in, then frown and pull back. If I interrupt him too much, it'll take even longer.

He sighs and closes his eyes for a second, then opens them and gives me that agonized look, taking another step forward.

"I'm here to say I'm sorry," he says, instantly making my next breath shuddering and heavy. He lowers his eyes. "That's what I came to do, at least. And I've just been giving myself more reasons to apologize since then. I know… I know I'm the last person you wanted to see—"

"Then why won't you leave?" I blurt out, and cringe because it sounds pleading and whiny and there's half a sob to it.

He gazes at me sadly, but with understanding. "Do you remember in the City Circle, when the Peacekeepers caught me and were dragging me away?" he asks.

I want to lash out that he should know I remember everything about that day in the City Circle, but it stays on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I simply nod. "They put a couple bullets in you for trying to escape," I say, and wrinkle my brow in thought. "They could've killed you. Tortured you for information or used you as leverage somehow. If there was any time to use your nightlock pill, it would've been then." Staring at him, I can't fight my curiosity. "What happened, did you lose it?"

Gale shakes his head. "No, Katniss," he says, managing to meet my eyes. "I didn't take it, because… you had just lost Peeta. I didn't want you to have to see that too. I knew I had to fight. I had to live through it. For you. I couldn't take that nightlock pill, because I couldn't let you lose anyone else." His voice breaks here, and he struggles not to lower his eyes again, because now they're filled with tears. "But after I found out what happened to Prim, I wished I had."

I clench my fists, hooking my nails in my palm and squeezing against the cloth in the other hand as I fight not to let this affect me. I'm drowning again, weighed down by the same sea from the horrific haze of my fire mutt delirium. The water that I've drawn into my lungs ices over with each brisk inhale, sharp edges pricking at my chest. I believe him but I don't want to care. The devastation he suffered is written plainly on his face; mine has been branded into my entire body.

"Snow said it aired live," I say, hoping the frost in my tone will hide its quiver. "Did you see it? Did you ever watch the footage for that?"

Gale swallows hard. "I never could."

Narrowing my eyes, I cross my arms at him. "Well, I had a front row seat for it. Got to watch it up close and personal," I spit out. "The bombs. The little body parts scattered in the snow. Bits and pieces of Capitol children lying everywhere—" His mouth opens, trembles, but no words come out; he just stands there looking sick. Lowering my voice, I continue in a hiss, "You know, some of them didn't die right away. They just laid there in agony like Boggs. Naturally, Prim came running up to help them. She always was a born healer. You remember. Or maybe you don't, you were pretty out of it when she helped Mom take care of you after the whipping."

A wince from Gale. I can only hope that the strike of guilt cuts deeper than Thread's whip.

"You know what I remember?" I say. "The parachutes. The second explosion. Watching my little sister go up in flames." I let the words sink in for him, breathing in harshly through my nose while Gale's face contorts in grief. Then I take a step forward, letting my arms fall at my sides. "Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can still see her burning. Fire's so much brighter in the darkness. But you don't know what that's like." Closing the distance between us, I lift my chin and make sure his gaze locks with mine. "No, you shouldn't have taken the nightlock pill. You should have burned with us."

Gale swallows again, shaken, then blinks away a few tears. "I failed your family, Katniss. I know that," he says quietly. "And if there was any way I could ever make it up to you, I'd do it. You know I would."

"There's nothing you can do," I tell him. "You won't do the one thing I ask. You couldn't even let me have this last full day with Shireen before she leaves, like you should be—"

I stop myself here as the answer comes to me. It's like a light switches on in my head, a match flares in the darkness and relights the wick on my small candle of hope. There's only one way to appease us both.

Gale's still talking at me, looking rueful yet stubborn as ever. "I already told you. There's no way I'm leaving Westeros without you—"

"You don't have to leave Westeros," I say, which shuts him up. "Just leave Castle Black. Tomorrow, with Stannis and his army." He merely stares at me in response, eyes searching, thinking hard. Still at a loss for words but not saying no. Encouraged, I press further. "He and the Red Woman were trying to recruit you, weren't they? You like war. If this is going to be your world now, you should fight for it."

Gale makes a face. "I don't like war, Katniss," he says.

"No, but you're good at it," I argue. "You helped Coin win ours. You have the mind, the weapons. You have Beetee. Anything you need, he can tap into my victor's winnings and send in a parachute." Desperate, I grab his arm and hold tight, forcing him to look at me. "Stannis needs you," I say. "And you owe me."

I can't tell if I'm reaching him. He presses his lips together, conflict and consideration creasing his forehead. We both know the risks of what I'm asking of him, but this is my compromise.

"You want another chance to protect my family? Then protect my family," I say, drawing out each word with cold measure. "Protect Shireen." I let go of his arm, and lower my voice, but trap him with the urgency in my stare. "Don't let anything happen to her. Hunt, fight, do whatever it takes, just keep her safe. Promise me." He averts his eyes, so I grab at his arm again. "Promise me, Gale."

After a moment's staredown, he gives a solemn but fervent nod.

"I promise," he murmurs, so quietly that I shouldn't be able to hear the crack in his voice. "I'll… go talk to Stannis first thing in the morning."

A rush of hope and relief courses through me, escaping my lips in a puff of mist. My grip slackens, freeing his arm, and then he's gone, vanishing through the courtyard passage before I can say anything else. And suddenly I feel the weight of my exhaustion and fear. Picking up his game bag, I drag myself all the way to my room and sink onto the bed, sighing into my furs as I clutch them tight to me. When I emerge from them, they come away wet, and I realize how afraid I still am. I roll onto my back, bunching the blankets under my chin, and gaze up at the ceiling.

Can I trust him again? I wonder, the loudest and most repeated of my racing thoughts. Can I really put this kind of faith in him? The lengths he'll go to for war, for me... will he go that far for her?

Time to see what a promise from this world's Gale Hawthorne is worth.

Chapter Text

In the morning, it's clear that tossing and turning all night was a mistake, but despite my grogginess I manage to drag myself out of bed before sunrise. I'll bury my face in the snow if that's what it takes to keep myself alert, but I've gotten up earlier than this to avoid the Peacekeepers' notice when I ventured out beyond the fence to hunt back in Twelve.

I don't bother braiding my hair, just comb it quickly and pull myself together, fastening the mockingjay pin to my coat before hurrying outside. When I step out into the corridor, the courtyard is more awake than I am. Braziers and torches burning, banners waving in the wind, Baratheon soldiers talking amongst themselves as they're saddling their horses. This assuages some of my sleepy panic, though I grab a banister for strength and catch my breath. I'd almost convinced myself they'd be gone already, leaving early for a head start on the day.

Moving along the corridor, I scan the grounds for familiar faces. It's not bustling yet, but more and more soldiers fill the courtyards, creeping through passages and leading their horses toward the gathering area in front of the elevator. Even so, the cloak of deep red among a sea of black is hard to miss, particularly when she's standing near a brazier, illuminated by the firelight. Not wanting to get in the way of the army, I cross the walkway, cut through the passage under the rookery, and make it to the corridor in front of the dining hall for a better look.

Where there's Stannis, there's Melisandre, and apparently the reverse is the same. I see the king just a few feet from the Red Woman, exchanging words with a soldier as he secures his belongings on a horse's saddle. Someone moves, a head tilts, and I realize the soldier is Gale. The way Melisandre is looking at him, I should have guessed it. It's not just the hungry lynx stare, it's the same enthrallment I saw on her face the morning after Mance's execution. She's sizing him up as she did with me, perhaps assessing his usefulness as well as his body.

Stannis finishes giving one of his men an order and returns his attention to Gale. They appear to be talking to each other with ease, or at least Stannis is taking him seriously. More seriously than he does me. I don't know how long Gale got up before I did, but it comes as no surprise that it's barely first light and Stannis has already given him a horse to ride. A light scoff escapes my lips. Probably Melisandre didn't have any objections, I'm sure that was part of it...

As if hearing my thoughts, Melisandre's head turns abruptly and her firelit eyes locate mine. As her lips curve into a cryptic, complacent little half-smile, an image of Coin flashes in my mind. I force myself to maintain a cool expression, but dread floods through me as I am troubled by an epiphany. I have sent Gale to the Red Woman just as much as I have sent him to Shireen.

Shireen. I don't see her with Stannis, or anywhere in the courtyard. Not even with Davos or Selyse. I linger on the balcony, searching, watching as the Baratheon soldiers keep coming with their horses. When I search to my left, I see Jon exit the commander's quarters, and when my gaze shifts to the right, I spot Edd and Olly overseeing things from the elevator's platform.

Hopeful, and going on a feeling, I keep a discreet eye on Olly. He seems to be searching as well, with a determination he's trying to mask as casual. I follow his line of sight, but there's no sign of the princess. Disappointed, I scan the grounds again, until I come all the way back to the elevator. And then I catch Olly looking my way. His indifference fails, his composure flickers, and for a moment his solemn young face actually brightens. I'm bemused by his inexplicable delight until I notice he's looking past me, not at me. Turning, I glance in the direction of his stare.

Sam and Gilly are just leaving the maester's quarters, baby Sam in the latter's arms, as they escort Shireen to the courtyard. She descends the staircase, looking all around. Quickly, I fly down the nearest set of stairs and weave my way through men and horses to get to her.

She almost doesn't notice me, dutifully heading towards Selyse, but maybe my gruff "excuse me"s to the soldiers are distinct enough to capture her attention. Her head turns just before I call out to her, "Shireen!"

"Katniss!" she cries, as if it's been days and not hours since we saw each other. I hold out my arms, and she rushes into them, locking me into a tight embrace.

When we finally pull away, I smooth her hair, silently noting the thin but elegant braid. Her mother's delicate handiwork. Nice to know she cares enough to do that much. Brushing petty thoughts away, I move my hand to cup her cheek. "Glad I found you," I say.

Shireen smiles. "I wanted to say goodbye to Maester Aemon before we leave," she says, and lowers her voice to a hushed tone. "He's been so kind, and it might be the last I see him, after all. Sam and Gilly say he doesn't have long. Even a dragon's fire burns out." She looks sad for a second, then reverent and reflective. "I can't believe I got to meet a real Targaryen."

"Me neither," I say. She has a better grasp on the importance of Targaryens than I do, but I've known Aemon for about as long as she has, and he's definitely grown on me. He has the same friendly nature, gentle wisdom, and passion for learning as Shireen. I don't want to think about losing him any more than I want to think of losing her, so I'm debating making a Targaryen joke to lighten the mood when Selyse makes her way toward us through a path the Baratheon men have made for her in the crowd. She collects her daughter from me, informing us both that she still needs to ready her horse for the journey.

I go over and stand with Sam and Gilly, talking to them to keep myself awake. Little Sam is sound asleep and bundled up in a blanket, which I envy during this bitter cold morning, but I'm not going anywhere until I've seen Shireen off.

"Is that Gale?" Gilly asks, craning her head as she spots him conversing with another Baratheon soldier. "Is he going with them?"

"Yeah," I say tiredly, rubbing more sleep from my eyes. "I made him promise to watch over Shireen."

Sam acknowledges this with a hum. "That's one way to get rid of him," he says knowingly.

I manage a weak smile. That's right, I think to myself. Sending him off to war. Perfect solution. I try to ignore the small pang of guilt in my gut. He has experience, he has Beetee… If he doesn't want to make things up to me, he can leave this world. "It was the best compromise I could think of," I say after a moment.

Then Jon strides past us, swiftly crossing the courtyard, and comes up to Shireen and Selyse as they're saddling the princess's horse. He appears to be saying goodbye to them both, to Selyse respectfully, but mostly to Shireen. The princess beams at him happily, and Jon smiles back at her. She says something that makes him laugh, even look slightly embarrassed. I can't help but grin watching them together. As Lord Commander, Jon often has his hands full with training and other responsibilities, so seeing them interact directly is a treat I've only witnessed myself a handful of times.

"What do you think they're talking about?" Gilly asks.

"Oh, she's probably commending him again on his rendition of the Meadow song," I say proudly.

Sam blinks, looking intrigued at me. "Jon can sing?" He starts to smile.

"Shireen says he's pretty good," I say, laughing a little. I turn to him and Gilly, who's grinning too. "That also stays between us."

They both nod seriously; Gilly lowers her eyes to Little Sam and bites her lip in amusement.

Despite Selyse's thinly veiled distaste, she lets Jon finish his goodbyes to her daughter, which tells me Shireen is allowed company again. The sun's come up, though you could hardly tell through the layer of clouds in the wintry white sky, and they've opened the west gate to start letting riders out. It's almost time. When I look back and see that Jon has already moved along, I start heading over to Shireen – until something orange darts by in my peripheral vision.

Buttercup. Skulking past barrels and under wooden structures. Either he's tracking vermin or he's afraid of all the horses. Even though he spent the night in Shireen's room, I know it won't be a proper sendoff until Buttercup has gotten a few farewell pets from his princess. Resolute, I slip through the crowd and hunt him down, getting in a good chase but finally pouncing on him before he disappears into a crevice. He wriggles, but I hold fast and call him a few unflattering names under my breath as I bring him back with me. Only mentioning Shireen makes him calm down.

I'm almost halfway across the courtyard when I see Gale again, and he's talking to Jon. Another curse falls from my lips. I trust Jon, but the two of them engaging in any sort of conversation still makes me wary. Maybe he's just explaining where he's going, the deal we made. Whatever he's telling Jon, he does look resigned about it. And Jon… I can't quite read Jon's initial expression. Thoughtful? Conflicted? He looks away briefly, then meets Gale's eyes and squares his shoulders as he gives some sort of matter-of-fact response.

My curiosity won't stop eating me from the inside. I creep forward, meandering through the sea of soldiers while staying hidden, and strain to listen. Gale's talking again. My ears perk up at the mention of Peeta.

"—the same thing I would've told him," Gale's saying. "Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can't survive without. And she's made it clear she can survive without me."

His words send a chill running through my bones, inflicting a worse sting than the icy wind. As much as I insist that he doesn't know me anymore, I can't help feeling wounded on top of my indignation. That's what he would've said to Peeta? That if he had lived, I would decide between them by assessing what they had to offer me? Not love, not desire, not any kind of emotion to drive my choice, just a detached, analytical evaluation of their worth as a mate... How the hell did this even come up?

I glance at Jon, whose brow is now furrowed with heavy skepticism. He looks Gale up and down, pressing his lips together as if holding himself back from saying something.

"She lived through two Hunger Games. She was on her own beyond the Wall for days," Jon says at last. "She killed a bloody shadowcat. I think she can survive just fine without either of us."

Despite everything else that I heard, something stirs in my chest, and I feel my lips twitch into the tiniest of smiles. I didn't think I'd get a chance to see Jon tell him off like that.

"All the same," Gale says, after a short pause. "Take good care of her."

Jon regards him for a moment, says something I don't hear. My mind is buzzing as they shake hands, turning all external sounds into static noise. I'm unspeakably pleased at what Jon said in my defense, but the "either of us" part has sunk in and is throwing me into all sorts of disarray. Somehow, however their conversation started, it led to who I'd choose between the two of them. Once I get over my shock, it's unsettling how easy the choice is. There was never any question.

And then I realize that's partially what Gale is saying to him. In sending Gale away, I have picked Jon. By not leaving Castle Black, I have picked Jon.

Though there is a flaw to that argument. Jon knows I've already tried to leave with Stannis. In his eyes, I haven't picked him, I've just picked "Not Gale." And I have already attempted to survive without him.

What does it matter who I choose, anyway? Even if there was ever any competition. It's not my choice that's the issue, it's Jon's. For numerous reasons, I am not an option for him.

Unless… My eyes drift to Gilly, who knows about Benjen, and then to Sam at her side. Sam and Gilly, who know my secrets. Sam and Gilly, who still like me almost as much as they love each other. They're not married and never will be, but there they are, practically raising a child together. I wonder how long the Night's Watch will allow this.

Probably for as long as Jon Snow is Lord Commander…

Buttercup grows restless in my arms, so I dismiss these thoughts and gladly bring him to Shireen. I can't afford to ponder away our last hour.

As I approach the princess, who is still being monitored by her mother, I hold out the cat and say, "Look who braved the sea of horses to come say goodbye to you."

Her eyes brighten with joy. "Buttercup!" she exclaims, accepting him into her arms. "There you are!"

Selyse, as usual, is hardly impressed, though I will note she's looking at me with a bit less vitriol. "You carried him here," she points out.

I shrug, now that my arms are free. "To him, I'm worse than horses," I say.

For a second – maybe I'm so tired that I'm hallucinating – I think the corners of Selyse's mouth threaten to tug into a smile. Possibly this is one area where she and Buttercup can relate.

After cuddling Buttercup for a moment, Shireen gives a start like she's thought of something, and she adjusts him into one arm as she digs through a knapsack on her horse. "Here," she says, gingerly retrieving Peeta's medallion from one of the pockets. "I never gave this back to you last night."

I reach for it as she hands it out to me, but Selyse swiftly intercepts, inspecting it in her palm and then holding it up to the meager light like she thinks it's fake gold, or I've smuggled poison inside. "Perhaps you were too exhausted to remember, with her keeping you up so late singing her songs last night," she quips, clicking the locket open. Her brow furrows as she studies the pictures, then she makes a noise of feigned disinterest and snaps it closed before passing it over.

Deciding it's not worth engaging with her, I invest most of my attention in putting the medallion back on, but Shireen frowns. "I wasn't sure when I would get to hear them again," she says softly.

The fact that Selyse has got her daughter upset again annoys me, but I don't waste my time with a glare. In fact, I don't take my eyes off Shireen at all, even as I unpin the mockingjay from my coat. "I have something for you too," I say, and hold my palm outstretched for her to see.

Shireen draws in a breath, looking from the mockingjay to me in wonder. "Your pin…?" she says, setting Buttercup down so she can admire it.

"It's a tribute token," I explain. "It belonged to my mother's best friend, Maysilee Donner. Twenty-six years ago, she wore it into battle. Then it got passed down to her niece, my friend Madge, and she asked me to wear it for her when I went into battle." Placing it in her palm, I fold her fingers over it. "Will you wear it for me? When you and your father take back Winterfell?"

She nods, taking it and fastening it to her cloak, then lifts her chin and lets a smile return to her face. "Mockingjays can imitate any human melody, can't they?" she says. "It will be like keeping your songs with me."

I smile too. "Exactly," I say. "I wish I could give you the real bird, but you don't have any in Westeros. And they're not really meant to be caged." Jokingly, I add, "Now, I could give you Buttercup…"

"Oh, no," Shireen says, although she looks at him wistfully. "I think he'd miss you too much, and you would miss him. He's Ser Buttercup, remember? You'll still need him to be your protector." She looks thoughtful, entirely missing the snort I manage to cover up. "Besides, I don't think he'd do well with traveling that far. Not in the cold weather."

I could mention the fact that Buttercup came all the way home from District 13 to 12 in the winter, but I decide against it, remembering the claw marks and the big thorn in his paw. Even if they carried him, I'm not sure I want to find out how many of those cold, perilous journeys he can withstand. "You're right, he should probably stay here," I concede.

Selyse glances down at the little furball in question. "Likely, it's for the best," she says. "As Shireen is well aware, when we were besieged at Storm's End, her father and his men were known to eat cats in times of hunger."

As if understanding her, Buttercup gives a low, tentative growl.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," says Davos, joining us. "He probably tastes even worse than he looks."

I laugh, and Davos beams back at me with the self-satisfied eye twinkle of a father who knows he's made a good joke. It occurs to me that I may miss him almost as much as Shireen.

Sighing, the princess takes Buttercup into her arms again and strokes his fur. "They're so mean to you," she says, engulfing him in a protective hug. He starts purring so loud I can hear him above the clamor in the courtyard. Somehow, I think he'll get over it. Still, she looks at me and adds, "Promise you'll be nicer to him after I'm gone."

"For you, princess… maybe," I say, and give him a quick scratch behind the ear.

It's a small gesture, but it's enough to satisfy Shireen. As Selyse walks off to fetch her own horse, Shireen sets Buttercup back down and promptly hugs me next. "I'll miss you, Katniss," she says. "I'm glad you came to Castle Black when you did."

I take a moment to register what she's saying, and suddenly the full weight of it hits me. All the worlds I could've come to, all the places and moments in time, and I wound up here at the same time as Shireen. Arriving here the day after she and her father's army did. Now I can't imagine wanting that portal to take me anywhere else. This is where I was meant to be.

My eyes find Melisandre in the crowd. She's talking to Jon, which unsettles my nerves all over again, so I clutch Shireen closer for security.

"Maybe the Lord of Light made it so," I say half-jokingly, though inwardly I murmur a silent "thank you" to Benjen Stark, wherever he is. Cupping a hand behind her head, I give her the most composed and confident smile I can muster. "Next time we see each other, it'll be at Winterfell."

"The Songbird of Winterfell," Shireen says dreamily. "I think that has a nice ring to it."

Absently, I straighten the mockingjay pin on her cloak. "You'll be the songbird until then," I say, then press my lips to her forehead and embrace her again. I wouldn't try such a familiar gesture in front of Selyse, but I doubt Davos will object. Sure enough, when I draw back and turn to him, he's just giving us that same look from last night, the bittersweet understanding that smooths his brow and crinkles at his eyes. Probably this is something he didn't get to see much of in Dragonstone. Shireen, with any kind of playmate or companion besides Maester Cressen or her family's fool. Another reason I am relieved that Gale is going. In an attempt to get my mind off that, I try for a grin and say, "Unless Ser Davos thinks he can fill in for me."

Davos gives a light snort. "If these men wanted torture, they'd sooner surrender themselves to the Boltons," he says under his breath. I laugh, but we must both simultaneously realize the darkness of the remark, because he doesn't miss a beat in adding, "Anyway, they'll probably be singing the songs themselves all the way to Winterfell. Don't think I'm going to get 'Oh My Darling, Clementine' out of my head anytime soon."

I break into a grin. "Trust me, you won't," I say, remembering how my father good-naturedly complained of the same thing. He said his mother used to sing the chorus of that one on the regular, whenever she was feeling cheerful. Odd, considering it's yet another song sung by my grandmothers that involves drowning. "Apparently, I'm lucky I'm not named after a fruit."

"Clementine Everdeen," Davos says thoughtfully, and we both make a face. "Never thought I'd meet anyone grateful to be named after a swamp potato."

Shireen and I both laugh. "No, I like Katniss better," she says with a smile.

"Me too," he agrees, grinning at her.

I find myself flashing back to my first day here, when Davos approached Sam, Gilly, and me at the mention of my name. His tale of smuggling the plant into Storm's End to feed Stannis and his men. Such a simple connection, and yet I think we instantly trusted each other because of it. He has a warmth to him that I'll be sad to see leave Castle Black, but at least he'll be with Shireen. My heart sinks as I notice more soldiers leaving through the gate.

"Safe travels, Ser Davos," I say, earning a nod from him. "And you, Princess."

They notice the same thing I have and murmur their goodbyes. Buttercup chimes in with his own, so I pick him up as Davos helps Shireen onto her horse, and I lift him up to her as she gladly gives the old cat one last forehead kiss and a good long chin and ear scratch. This draws out until my arms start to get tired. Not long after I lower him to the ground, I hear Gale's voice from within close range.

"Hey, Buttercup, do I get a goodbye?" he says, and I turn on my heel. The tone he's used sounds half-joking, but the look on his face as he stares down at Buttercup is almost hopeful.

In response, Buttercup stares back for half a second, then flicks his tail at him and bolts away. A cold dismissal on its own, the cat takes it a step further. He slinks through the sea of horse and soldier feet untrampled and makes a beeline straight for Jon, cutting him off as he's trying to cross the courtyard. Jon stops short, startled, as Buttercup threads through his legs, rubbing up against them repeatedly each time he tries to take a step so the man can hardly go anywhere.

Gale watches all of this with an odd flavor of chagrined amusement. "You've got to be kidding me," he mutters.

Having seen the whole thing, Shireen's downright giggling and so am I, but for an added reason. Buttercup's vindictive side is actually pretty funny when it's not directed towards me. "I think Jon's in need of rescuing," Shireen comments, pressing her lips into a contained grin.

"I've got him," I say, still laughing. But I haven't gone more than a few strides before Jon makes it to the staircase and Buttercup hops onto a sturdy spot on the wooden railing. Jon stops, chuckles a little, and concedes in giving Buttercup what he wants – a short but affectionate head rub, with the latter arching and headbutting his glove for more.

I'm dumbstruck. The cat can't be smart enough to put on this kind of performance. I didn't even think he liked males – or, well, anyone besides Prim or Shireen. Maybe he's seen Jon being nice to her. Maybe I've missed out on witnessing some crucial Jon and Buttercup bonding moments in the last couple of weeks. There's no way this is the first. Jon's too patient, Buttercup too willing. Or maybe Jon just has the added bonus of never having attempted to drown him.

I shake my head, turning away as Jon climbs the staircase and Buttercup meows after him. I go over to Gale, who's been watching too. "Should've seen that coming," he says.

"You really should've," I tell him.

"Like cat, like owner."

"Y— hey!" I say loudly. Selyse gives me a look as she and one of the soldiers guide her horse past us, sobering me immediately. Her disapproval moves to Davos, but I'm sure I'm included when she declares that Shireen has heard enough talk of battles for one morning. I smile as Shireen gallantly promises to protect him on the battlefield, but my smile fades as I see Selyse mount her horse.

"Guess it's time," Gale says, seeing the same thing.

"Guess so," I say. He's probably gunning for a goodbye, but that only reminds me he already got one from someone. "Good talk with Jon earlier?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at him.

He doesn't bat an eye. "Saw me saddling up, so I filled him in. Plus, I had a favor to ask," he answers. Before I can press him further about the favor, he adds, "Don't worry, we kept it civil. And I didn't tell him anything else about the Games."

"Doesn't matter, I told him the rest last night," I reply. "He knows everything now."

Gale pauses. "Everything?" he says, giving me a skeptical look.

I try to glare, but it comes out halfhearted. "Almost everything," I say begrudgingly.

A meager chuckle from Gale. "Don't drag it out too long, Catnip," he says. "He's a good guy. Or at least he must be, if you of all people can look past the name Snow." Then he gives me a long look. "You love him?"

My face flushes hot with protest, but there is no point sputtering to the contrary. He's riding to war. The least I can do is be honest with him.

"Trying not to," I whisper.

Gale looks at me longer, his expression unreadable. "That's the difference, then," he says, and shakes his head as a quiet scoff escapes his lips. "You've never had to try not to fall in love with someone before."

I clutch my medallion, upset, and hold it to my heart. It stings to think he may be right. My unfeeling "I know" to his declaration of love in the concrete house by the lake. My handling of the relationship with Peeta, from Games to engagement, as little more than a survival strategy for us both. Even his most recent allegation that I would've gone about choosing between them in a pragmatic way rather than emotional.

My mother didn't run off with a coal miner because that was the rational thing to do. Certainly not because he had more to offer her than Mr. Mellark, or she could extend her longevity if she moved to the Seam. What my father offered her was love and music, and until he died, there was a lot of it in our house.

I wonder if she ever tried not to love him, the poor, hunting coal miner who sang his Covey songs and enchanted even the birds with his voice. If she thought it would be safer to live out her days in the merchant sector, working in the apothecary shop with her parents or becoming the baker's wife. Obviously, if she did, it didn't work out.

But it didn't end well for them, either.

"Well, good luck with that," Gale says, turning to his horse. "If it makes you feel any better, he's trying not to either. Though I have to say, neither of you are doing a very good job."

"We've been over this. He's not in love with me," I say, folding my arms petulantly.

Gale rolls his eyes with a doubtful snort. "He almost stopped talking to me in mid-sentence to watch you chase after Buttercup."

I choke down a groan of dismay. They saw that? Great. That's not Jon being in love, that's just the Lord Commander witnessing a comical performance. The kind of thing you can't tear your eyes away from, like drunk Haymitch falling off the stage at the reaping. I must've looked like a complete idiot. Thanks, stupid cat.

Gale's doing last checks on his supplies, pack and crossbow slung around his shoulder, securing a satchel on his saddle, when I tune back in and grab his shoulder. "Jon's not the one I want you worrying about," I say when he turns around. "From now on, it's Shireen." I look him in the eye and drop my voice to a whisper again. "Remember, whatever it takes. Stay with her. You have your way of contacting Beetee?"

He takes out his earpiece and waves it a little in answer.

"Good. If you need anything, just ask. It all comes out of my victor's winnings," I tell him. "Peeta's, too."

Gale frowns thoughtfully. I remember how he reacted last year when he thought I was giving him Peeta's old gloves. A couple of months after I returned to District 12, I found out that before Peeta went into the Quarter Quell, he'd written a letter and a will. What remained of his winnings after his donation to the families of District 11's fallen tributes, he wanted to be given to his own family, and to mine as well. His family is dead, so the rest belongs to me. Some of it, I've already given to my mother to help her fund the hospital in 4, but there's still more than enough for a Westeros fund. The point is that it's mine, and Shireen can't afford for Gale to be petty.

If that was his initial reaction, he recovers smoothly with a small nod and a wry half-smile. "Got any other last words for me before we go?"

I consider, then the corner of my mouth twitches to mirror his. "Stay alive?" I offer.

Gale actually laughs. "That might just be the nicest thing you've said to me," he says, and stops there, but we both know how the rest of that sentence is supposed to go. Since the war. Since Prim.

It's what keeps me from hugging him goodbye, even though I wonder if I should. He and Shireen are going into an arena together. Unlike most years' Games, it's possible for them both to come out alive. Gale has lived through one war already, and with this one, he has more advanced tools and weapons available to him than the enemy does. The odds are in his favor. But I can't ignore the bad feeling that lingers over me like a dark cloud.

I can, however, ignore the urge to hug him tight just in case. If I don't give in to that feeling, I deny that there is a "just in case." I deny that the risk he's taking is so great, my fear for him overpowers my grudge. The moment I hug him, I show him that I am afraid. That a part of me isn't convinced he can keep himself alive, let alone Shireen.

Instead, I try to convey it with a glance. We can save any potential embraces for reunions, when I see them both again. When Shireen is safe and sound at Winterfell. Only then will I consider it.

He reads it and understands, putting his earpiece back in his ear. "Oh, and before I forget, there's one more thing Beetee wanted me to tell you," he says. "He got an update from Paylor. They found a copy of the 10th Games."

The words barely register for a few seconds. "What…?" I breathe, a ripple of excitement and disbelief coursing through me with a shudder. "How? Where?"

This is historic. The rediscovery of the 10th Games. No other Hunger Games year has been erased so meticulously. I have never seen reruns of it, and the few people still living who were old enough to remember have nothing to say about it. Greasy Sae told me no one really watched the Games until the year after, and the few televisions they had in Twelve had terrible reception, but I've always suspected there's got to be more to it than that.

"Well, not a copy. The original," Gale amends. "They found it in a vault. Belonged to an old Head Gamemaker, Dr. Volumnia Gaul. They've already started making new copies of it. Beetee requested one as soon as they were available. He and Paylor thought you might want to see it."

"We had our first victor that year. Of course I want to see it," I say impatiently.

"No, but it's more than that, Katniss, it's who she was to you," Gale insists.

Who she was to me…? I furrow my brows, searching Gale's eyes. "Who was she?" I ask, nervousness fluttering in my chest like wings in the ravens' pens.

Leaning in close, Gale lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper: "Lucy Gray Baird."

Again, my breath hitches in my throat. "Lucy Gray Baird?" I repeat, dumbfounded. "Like my grandmother's Lucy Gray? The one who—"

"—disappeared?" Gale finishes for me, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully.

It's like a light finally goes on in my head, illuminating the pieces I've never managed to put together. Yes, I know my grandmother had a cousin who went missing or was killed when she was a teenager. I know nobody ever found a body. I know the Covey stopped performing at the Hob not long after, when Grandma Maude Ivory was about nine years old. Yes, that would've been during the year of the 10th Games, but I never thought about it long enough to make the connection.

"What happened? What'd she do?" I demand. She must've infuriated the Capitol in an unfathomable way for them to want to hide all evidence of it. It would explain why she was never seen again. The Capitol could've easily killed her and hid the body. But then again, that makes no sense to me. Even if they didn't care about their victors back then, if they hated her enough to kill her, wouldn't they have killed her family too? I had an answer, but now I just have more questions.

"Not her. Her mentor," Gale says, and his features crinkle in a way that I can't tell if he's disgusted or inexplicably amused. Perhaps a combination of the two. "Remember Tigris, from the shop with the furs? Paylor and Plutarch talked to her, turns out she's Snow's cousin. She's the one who gave them the tip about Dr. Gaul. Apparently that year, just that year, the students at the Academy in the Capitol were assigned to be mentors to each tribute. Only it didn't work out so well. Mentors and tributes died before the Games even started. A murder at the zoo, a bombing in a tour of the arena, kids shot as they tried to escape…" Gale's brow creases in disgust; I'm guessing he's seen it already. "But the final straw was when one of the mentors cheated and smuggled things into the arena to help his tribute win." He pauses here for effect, and locks eyes with me. "The District Twelve girl's mentor, a student by the name of Coriolanus Snow."

A chill of horror seeps through my blood. I clutch Gale's horse's saddle to steady myself. "No," I say, shaking my head hard. "No."

Because I did not just hear "District Twelve girl" and "Coriolanus Snow" used in the same sentence. And I did not hear that he used drastic measures to ensure she lived. Snow would've been eighteen that year, but I can't picture him that young and I don't want to. Nor do I want to comprehend the reasons why he would save Lucy Gray's life. There had to be something in it for him. Glory? So much for that, after the erasure of the Games. But if not glory, then…

"Tigris said Lucy Gray caught his eye from the moment she sang her song at the reaping," Gale says. "She said he'd visit her at the zoo where they kept the tributes, and she saved his life when the rebels bombed the arena. Said there was even a goodbye kiss before she went in."

I clap a hand over my own mouth almost protectively as a shiver runs up my spine, unable to picture anything but the older Snow's puffy lips. Now I'm forced to live with the knowledge that he kissed my own blood relative, as if I don't have enough night terrors thanks to him!

"So when he got busted for cheating and was forced to be a Peacekeeper, he specifically requested to be sent to Twelve," Gale continues. "Tigris said she knows he was with her that summer, even saw her perform, because their musician friend had mentioned that Snow had asked him to send instrument strings for her. Then he came back to the Capitol at the end of August for a Gamemaker's internship and he refused to talk about her after that." Pausing, Gale gives me a look. "Tigris figured they had some sort of falling out. Up until she sent a letter to one of his Peacekeeper buddies and he told her she'd disappeared."

He shifts his gaze to the west gate, where a steady stream of Baratheon soldiers has been trickling out.

"Anyway, I guess it runs in the family, but… turns out you're not District Twelve's first songbird to fall in love with a Snow," he says softly. Glancing back to me for only a second, he takes in my staggered expression before turning back to his horse and preparing to hoist himself up. "The footage is on the projector."

I'm so stunned, I don't even remember if we said goodbye to each other. I just remember Gale climbing on his horse and me slowly backing away. Luckily turning around before I bumped into anyone. I head for the dining hall staircase, mind racing with thousands of thoughts. My eyes drift up to a balcony and find Jon talking to Stannis, and I breathe out a sigh. It's still too early for this.

Yes, a few things run in the Baird family. The eyebrows, the nose, the ability to carry a tune. And then there are the things that connect me with Lucy Gray, like winning the Hunger Games… falling for a man named Snow… and, not to mention, vanishing off the face of Panem.

The thing is, I know how I disappeared. I know what happened to me. But what the hell happened to her?

I have my suspicions, and obviously so does Gale, but I'll talk to Beetee about it later. After Stannis's army leaves. For now, I nod to Sam and Gilly, then take to the stairs and start climbing. Best to get out of the courtyard while the soldiers are trying to leave, and I should have a decent last view of Shireen, Davos, and Gale from up here.

Stannis descends the steps as I'm going up, so we pass each other along the way. "Safe travels, Your Grace," I say, for the sake of being polite.

Pausing, he gives me a nod of acknowledgment. "Did you say goodbye to Shireen yet?" he asks after a moment.

"Yes, a few minutes ago," I say. "Buttercup did too."

His mouth twitches slightly – you couldn't even call it a half-smile, probably more like a quarter – and he scoffs, but it doesn't sound entirely scornful. "Good."

I hold his gaze, wanting to say more. To tell him that he has a wonderful daughter and he's raised her well, that I'm glad to have known them and I think she'll make a terrific queen someday. But even if the words could come, I don't want to force a king to stand there listening to me gush. Then I see the first night's pyre in his eyes, the memory of Mance burning at the stake, and that wipes all thoughts of praise from my mind and I have to look away. Stannis tromps the rest of the way down the steps as I come up onto the platform. Glancing over at me, Jon moves aside to make room next to him, even though there's space behind him on the other side of the stairs. When I join him, he offers a faint sympathetic smile before turning his stare back to the courtyard.

"You all right?" he asks.

It takes what little energy I have not to snort. I wonder what he's seeing most prominently. The bags under my eyes from little sleep, the haunted look from finding out I'm not the first in my family to be attracted to a Snow, or the grief from having to stand here and watch almost helplessly as Shireen Baratheon rides for Winterfell, leaving me and Castle Black behind.

"I'll be fine," I say, and lean forward on the banister to watch.

As Stannis walks up to his horse, I spot Melisandre next to him on hers, and she's looking this way. That same piercing red stare that tells me she knows things she shouldn't. Briefly I debate going back down there and putting this to good use. Maybe her Lord of Light knows what happened to Lucy Gray.

But then, beside me, Jon awkwardly straightens his posture, and I see Melisandre's lips form a smirk. Oh, so she was looking at him. Or they were staring at each other. Remembering the two of them had their own little goodbye in the courtyard, I try not to bristle. Her subsequent eyebrow raise of amusement before she turns her gaze ahead tells me I've failed.

Annoyed, I search for Shireen. The soldiers are moving out and I don't want to miss one last goodbye before she leaves. I won't let the Red Woman take that from me.

After a few seconds, her sleek black horse catches my eye. Yes, there she is. And Gale has ridden up next to her. They appear to be talking to each other. Gale's holding onto his reins with one hand and gesturing in some way with the other. Shireen's smiling at him, nodding. Whatever he's saying, she seems to be agreeing with it.

As the horses in front of them start moving again, Selyse, Shireen, and Gale begin to follow. But before they head through the gate, Gale and Shireen both glance over their shoulders and find me on the balcony. Without hesitation, Shireen frees her left hand and touches her three middle fingers to her lips before holding it out to me. Gale deliberates for half a second and then echoes the salute.

Tears spring to my eyes, and despite my best efforts a choked sound wrenches its way out of my closed throat. Jon looks at me in concern, but I can't form any words. Pressing my fingers against my trembling lips, I send it back in their direction.

Shireen beams with pleasure, passing her proud smile on to Gale. He says something to her in praise, then gives me one last unreadable look before they both face forward and follow Selyse out the gate.

I feel Jon staring at me again, so I attempt to speak. "It's a gesture from our district," I say, luckily not sounding too watery. "Gale must've just taught it to her…"

"What does it mean?" Jon asks.

Angling my head away slightly, I sneak a discreet wipe at my eye. "It, uh… it means thanks, or admiration. Or goodbye, to…" I trail off there, chewing on my lip as my mind finishes the rest for me. To someone you love.

We watch silently as Shireen, Gale, and the last of the bannermen ride out and join the stream of Baratheon soldiers that winds along the wintry path just outside Castle Black. Soon, the doors will close behind them, but it will take even longer for this to feel real.

"He still loves you, you know," Jon says.

The words circle my tired brain for a few seconds, not sticking, only disorienting, as I'm unsure what to make of them. "Does he?" I say, squinting out beyond the courtyard as the steady trail of soldiers marches on.

Then, realizing, I turn to look at him. Dare to meet his eyes, as they search mine. And there's really nothing more to say, I've just made it plain.

Apparently satisfied with what he's found, Jon faces forward again. But at once, I start to wrinkle my nose. No, I don't think we're done here. As long as we're bringing up weird, tension-filled goodbyes… "What were you and the Red Woman talking about?" I ask. "Earlier."

He hesitates, sends a momentary glance my way, then resumes overlooking the courtyard. "She wants me to bring you to Hardhome," he answers. "Gale said the same. Said I'd need you."

My suspicion subsides. Most of it, anyway. Of course, that must be the greater purpose she was talking about. "Well, what do you say?" I ask. "I mean, I don't want you to feel like they're just inviting me along for you..."

"Would you want to go?" Jon ventures. "It's a bit of a journey north, and I know you said you would rather go south."

"In the long run," I say. "In this case, it's not a matter of north or south, it's a matter of north or Thorne." Jon gives a quiet scoff of laughter, but I add, "Put it this way, most of the people who like you are going with you. Who does that leave with us?" I gesture down to Sam and Gilly.

Jon strokes his beard, considering. "It would be best to still have someone here," he says slowly, "who can protect Sam and Gilly and ensure the gate opens when we return. But I think..." he pauses, throwing a glance my way, "I would be more comfortable if you came with me."

A smile creeps across my lips. "Hardhome it is, then," I agree. "When would we be leaving?"

"Ideally within a fortnight. Should give us enough time to prepare for the journey," says Jon. "Normally we would go north through the Wall and get there in a week, but we'll need ships to evacuate all the wildlings. Stannis's are waiting for us near Eastwatch-by-the-sea. It's a four, five-day ride there, and then it could take over a week to sail to Hardhome. The Bay of Seals can be difficult to cross in autumn." He lifts his eyebrows at me. "You sure you're up for it?"

I shrug. "Sounds doable."

Jon's mouth twitches with some amusement. "Hardhome it is, then," he repeats, and watches as the men begin to close the gate.

From up here, we still get a good view of the departing army, the faint yellow banners with the Baratheon's stag sigil fluttering in the distance, but when the doors slam shut, there's a finality to it. A thud that reverberates in my chest.

There she goes, it seems to say. This world's little duck. The little fawn.

Suddenly, I am thankful for the chance to get away. For a couple of weeks, I will feel her absence in Castle Black, a place I've only known with her in it. Then we'll leave for Hardhome, and at least it will give me something else to think about. A mission for me to redirect my focus. And, if I'm being honest with myself, an excuse to spend a little more time with Jon before the proverbial moment of truth.

Assuming the Red Woman is to be believed, I may serve some sort of purpose at Hardhome. Unification, it sounds like. If I do end up proving useful there, perhaps Jon will be more forgiving when I tell him about his uncle.

If he isn't, well…

Sighing, I avert my eyes from the shrinking line of soldiers and push myself away from the banister. "Better go feed the ravens," I say, drifting behind him and heading across the walkway towards the courtyard passage.

As I make my way towards the maester's quarters, a stanza from one of the Baird family's favorite songs kicks to the surface of my memory and sears into my brain. As clear and sweet and unignorable as if it were my father's voice, singing it in my ear.

"You yet may spy the fawn at play
The hare among the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen."

Chapter Text

I slip quietly into the maester's quarters, fully intent on sneaking up to the ravenry without disturbing Aemon's slumber. Shireen mentioned she'd said goodbye to him, but I figure he's gone back to bed by now. At least, I would if I were him and the ravens weren't hungry. With some success and only a creak or two of the floorboards, I reach the side door that leads to the staircase without any sign of him stirring. Gently pushing open the door, I'm just beginning to climb the steps when a huge yawn fights its way out of me before I can stifle it, and a cheerful voice rings out from above.

"Well, that was a mighty one!" Aemon calls down, making me jump and grip the banister. "It sounded more bear than maiden fair, if you ask me."

Wrinkling my forehead, I hurry up the rest of the steps and find him at the top, mincing meat with the cleaver. "Maester Aemon, you should let me take care of that," I say, coming over and very carefully disarming him. "I thought you were supposed to be on bedrest."

"Nonsense, I'm more awake than you are," he says warmly. "You can't have gotten much sleep, singing to the princess late into the night, only to wake before sunrise so you can say your farewells."

"Well, lesson learned," I say with a little sigh, setting aside the cleaver and picking up the bowl of meat bits. "You have to go to bed with the birds if you want to greet them at dawn."

Aemon smiles. "Now where did you hear that?"

I shrug mindlessly, moving along to the raven pens. "Just something my father and grandmother used to say," I answer, throwing a handful of bits through the bars.

"Sharp minds in District Twelve," Aemon says approvingly, following at a carefree amble.

That sounds like sweet-talk to me. A distraction from the fact that he probably shouldn't be up here. "Flattery won't get you anywhere, except back into bed," I say, setting the bowl down on a wooden ledge and shepherding the maester towards the stairs.

Aemon gives a wheeze of laughter. "I think the fresh air has done me some good," he tries to argue.

I won't hear of it. And not because if he's up there, I can't talk to Beetee like I'd planned. "It's not just fresh air, it's bitter cold," I retort, guiding him down the steps. "If that dragon blood isn't going to keep you warm, then you better stick to blankets."

He's still chuckling at me as I open the door and usher him inside. "Katniss Everdeen, I have lived a hundred years and seen many winters. I'm sure I can withstand a few minutes outside in the cold and survive another day."

"Yeah, well I don't know how you did it," I respond, leading him to his room. "Not a single one of my grandparents made it to sixty-five."

"Not a one?" Maester Aemon repeats. "Why ever not?"

Another diversion. I pick up on it almost immediately. He's like a young child before bedtime, he'd rather hear a scary story or the potentially grisly details of my grandparents' early deaths than go to sleep. I decide to give him what he wants, especially since I'm already killing his fun by hustling him back into bed.

"Well, my father's father, Grandpa Tarragon, he worked in the coal mines like him," I say, pulling back the bedsheets. "Died in a mine accident, just like him. He was forty-eight. My father had just turned seventeen at the time." Maester Aemon lets himself be brought to his bed, and obediently sits down. "I guess if we're going in order, my mother's father was next. Grandpa Comfrey was a healer like you, both my mother's parents worked in an apothecary shop, they were the ones who took care of people. He was killed by a Peac—a soldier, or guard," I correct myself. "Accidentally got in the way when he was trying to help a man who'd been struck down. He was forty-seven. Still lived long enough to meet me, but I was barely three so I don't remember him."

As Aemon settles into bed, I take the liberty of straightening things up and fluffing his pillow. "And your grandmothers?" he asks.

"Grandma Maude, my father's mother, she lived to sixty-three," I say, helping him lay back again. "Which isn't too bad if you were raised in the Seam. All the coal dust everywhere? Gets in your lungs, adds up over the years. She got sick. Towards the end, she couldn't really sing her songs anymore. My father and I promised we'd keep singing them for her." As this memory sneaks to the surface, I feel bad, because I can hear her voice even now, saying, Keep singing your song. And for years, I broke that promise. I essentially stopped when my father did, and his mother's songs almost died with him.

When I look back at Maester Aemon, his own expression has clouded over with something bittersweet, so I clear my throat and continue.

"Last was Grandma Rosemary," I say, taking a seat next to him. "My mother's mother. Now her, I remember best. She was a healer too. But she used to get lots of headaches. Died of a brain bleed not long after she turned fifty-five. That was the official cause of death, but they found her out by the fence near the Meadow in the cold," I add pointedly. She didn't even live around there. It was past our house if she was trying to visit, past Grandma Maude's old house if she was missing her. The merchants' side of 12 was in the opposite direction. "She must've been wandering confused. Should've stayed safe and sound at home by her fire, would've saved us a whole lot of worry when we went looking for her."

Aemon hums thoughtfully as I get up to tend to his own fire. "Lovely name, Rosemary," he says after a moment. "I don't suppose your sister was named for her… Primrose, wasn't it?"

"Yes," I confirm with a faint smile. "Grandma Maude had already had a hand in naming me Katniss, so it was only fair."

"Many plant and flower names in your family," he notes appreciatively.

"Hunter-gatherers on my father's side of the family. Herbalists and apothecaries on my mother's," I explain, and wander back to his bedside. "My mother, her parents, her grandparents, all healers. Prim too, she was going to be a doctor. Thirteen-year-old girl, and she was studying to be Panem's equivalent of a maester."

Aemon looks pleased. "Impressive," he says. "When I began my own training to become a maester at the Citadel, I myself was only nine years old."

"Nine?" I repeat in disbelief, sitting down again. The ravens have waited this long, they can wait a little longer. Right now, I'm picturing a tiny, white-haired little boy swimming in maester's robes and a chain. Prim was already helping our mother with patients when she was younger than that, but the Citadel sounds much more official.

"Of course, I didn't finish my studies until the age of nineteen," he amends.

"Still," I say, raising my eyebrows even though he can't see it.

Hearing it in my voice, he smiles a little. "And you? Do you have a knack for healing as well?"

"Me…? Oh, no, I don't have much skill there," I say, wincing at the memory of Peeta's misery in the cave. His fever alone was an ordeal; I remember thinking how ironic it was that Prim would've been more useful to him in the arena at that point. "My mother says healers are born, not made… to which I like to point out that her mother was adopted," I add wryly. "But Prim was the natural healer like our mother. I'm more like our father, I guess. I inherited the singing skills in the family."

"Yes, you did," Aemon laughingly agrees, but his chuckle turns into a cough just as I'm reminded of the other reason I brought him back down here.

"I'm going to finish feeding the ravens," I tell him, standing up. "Sam and Gilly should be coming to check on you any minute now. Don't let them catch you out of bed."

With that, I cross the room and make for the side door. I'm just stepping out when I hear his voice call to me again.

"You have a healer's touch, Katniss Everdeen," he says, causing me to turn around. "And a warrior's heart." A knowing smile touches his lips. "It comes with being an older brother or sister."

I match his smile, glad he can't see the twinge of pain in mine when I think of all the family he's lost over the ages. If there's a hereafter, maybe it's selfish, but I'm not ready for him to join them.

"Get some rest, Maester Aemon," I say, and head out into the cold.

After I give the ravens their breakfast, I make sure the coast is clear, then wander to the farthest edge of the rookery. The birds yell and caw here and there, but it's an advantage because it should muffle my words for any eavesdroppers, and not for Beetee, since I'm speaking into a microphone.

I get straight to business when he picks up. "So, Gale just gave me the update. About District Twelve's first victor," I say.

"It's fascinating, isn't it?" says Beetee. "Have you watched any of the footage yet?"

"Haven't gotten the chance," I tell him.

"Well, the projector Gale gave you holds a compilation of basically everything we have so far, or at least what we thought would be relevant to you," Beetee says. "The reaping at District Twelve. Some footage of their enclosure at the zoo. The bombing of the arena. The interviews. The Games themselves. I'll tell you now, she has quite the voice. Just like you. Must be that Baird blood…"

"Is what Tigris said true?" I cut in. "About her and Snow?"

"It would appear so," Beetee replies. "When you watch the footage, there's no denying they have a certain… chemistry."

"Oh, g—" I cover my mouth, trying not to gag very much, and look to the heavens. Lucy Gray, what did you get yourself into? After taking a few seconds to compose myself, I huff out a slow breath. "But does she think – I mean, are we all thinking that maybe he did something to her?"

"Hard to say," says Beetee. "What do you know about Lucy Gray's disappearance?"

I lean against the cold stone wall, starting to chew on my nails but thinking better of it since I used those fingers to fling raw meat bits. "A few things, especially as of this year," I say. "That at first they thought the mayor killed her, but they couldn't prove it because they never found a body. That the last time my grandma saw her was August 27th, on a Saturday."

"Very specific detail. For a relative you know so little about," Beetee notes.

"If there was one thing Grandma remembered as easily as songs, it was dates of things," I say. "Apparently that was also the last time they all sang together, the five of them. Doing a performance for the Commander's birthday." My father always remembered this too, because his birthday was the 24th and she would start getting sad around that time. He told me he could usually cheer her up by singing his songs. I continue, "Anyway, Gale's mother said her grandfather saw Lucy Gray up at dawn the next morning. Said she was going to see about a goat. Goat man said she never came, so Tam Amber was the last person to see her alive." I pause, then add, "Allegedly."

"Allegedly," Beetee agrees. "Anything else?"

I pick anxiously at my burn scars. "Well, according to Hazelle, the Covey found some supplies missing? And Tam Amber thought it meant she was going north."

"To Thirteen?" he guesses. I make a noncommittal noise in response. "Guess people had a feeling about it even back then."

"Yeah, but the thing is, they wound up finding the supplies but no Lucy Gray," I tell him. "And if Snow left Twelve at the end of August—"

"—then the timeline matches up well enough to suspect guilt," Beetee considers.

I frown, settling against the wall with my arms crossed. Resentment boils inside me as I fume over this new development. Even after he is gone, I'm still discovering more things Snow has taken from me, from District 12, from my family. We had a cousin, a singer, a victor, and he erased her from history. And he somehow managed to find out about my kiss with Gale in the woods, but I have no way of knowing for sure that he was involved in…

An idea pops into my head. It's a long shot, but it's all I've got.

"Beetee, do you think it would be possible to find footage of that last performance?" I ask. "Any of their performances that summer, really, but mostly the one on August 27th."

He makes a skeptical, deliberating noise. "Do you think there would be any footage?" he says. "I know the Peacekeepers didn't have much for themselves, let alone cameras. Especially in Twelve, and especially sixty-six years ago."

"Yeah, but it was a Commander's birthday party, and they had live music. Maybe it was a big enough deal. Maybe they wanted it recorded for posterity," I counter. "If Snow was a Peacekeeper back then, and she was performing, maybe there's some sort of clue. Maybe we could see him, I don't know, threaten her or something."

There's a pause, and I can practically feel Beetee ruminating over this. "Who was the Commander?" he asks after a moment. "Do you know the name?"

I search my memories for it. I know Greasy Sae mentioned him. "H… Haas? Hogg?" I try, then snap my fingers, startling a raven or two. "No, Hoff. It was Commander Hoff."

"I'll try to look into it," Beetee says. "I can't make any promises. If there was ever any record of it in District Twelve, it might've been destroyed in the bombs. But Peacekeepers get relocated, and precious things get archived. And the districts being in communication with each other now, well, that's already opened a lot of doors for us. Perhaps the odds will be in our favor."

"And if Paylor makes the 10th Games public knowledge again, to all of Panem, couldn't she put out a request for anyone with more information to come forward?" I ask. "Maybe it'll reach someone."

"Maybe so," he agrees, possibly humoring me. "It was a long time ago, Katniss. We're lucky to have Tigris as an informant. But if there's anything else to be known about the 10th Games or Snow and Lucy Gray, we'll find it. You also have Plutarch and Finnick's collection of Capitol secrets to thank for that."

Plutarch. Of course. Former Head Gamemaker, now Paylor's secretary of communications. Since my trial ended, he's probably been itching for the next big televised event. What better topic to cover than one of Panem's biggest mysteries?

I can see it now. The Hunger Games: The Lost Year. Guess he needed something after I turned down his pitch for a singing program. He would be absolutely beside himself if he found out what I've gotten up to in Westeros in the past three weeks under only Beetee's surveillance.

And speaking of Beetee's surveillance…

"What about the drone, any news on that?" I ask, suddenly remembering he alluded to it last night. "Is it flying nonstop? How far has it gotten?"

"Well, the good thing about our drone is that unlike humans, it can go a steady fifteen miles per hour without pausing to eat or drink," Beetee answers. "But unlike the white walkers, it does need to rest. I've been letting it fly for six to eight hours or so, then recalling it so it can recharge. I released it again this morning, and as we speak, I'd say it's passed over most of the Haunted Forest and is closing in on Storrold's Point."

"So, have you seen anything?" I press, though I'm sure he would've mentioned by now. Maybe he hasn't gone over the latest footage yet.

"Beautiful landscape," he replies. "Quite a bit of forest. No white walkers yet, unless they've been shielded by the trees. I stopped the drone early on the first night to recall it from Craster's Keep, but we're making good time. If all goes well, I should reach Hardhome tomorrow before nightfall. After that, I could turn the drone back around and do another sweep of the area, see if I've missed anything. Perhaps go a bit farther north."

"Feel free. Turns out we won't be leaving for Hardhome for another couple of weeks," I tell him. When Beetee makes a curious sound, I add, "Yeah, apparently in Westeros, 'shortly' means a fortnight."

However, Beetee was actually reacting to the "we" part, so I explain that I will be accompanying Jon to Hardhome. In two weeks, we'll be riding for Eastwatch, and then we'll be on a ship for over a week. Therefore, any requests I have for Beetee need to be made before I depart. Jon already knows about my communication devices, so I could probably get away with a few conversations and updates before we set sail. But I'd rather be safe than sorry around the other Night's Watch brothers who are coming with, and I can't be receiving parachutes in front of them or Jon. Certainly not while I'm on a ship.

No, I will be asking for favors now. And Beetee owes me a few after subjecting me to twenty-four hours of Gale – to his credit, he concedes with a laugh when I tell him this – but the ones I come up with are simple and fair. A supply of hot chocolate mix, for starters, since I will need the cheering up (I'm kicking myself for not asking for it sooner so Shireen could try it, but the extras I'll save for when we see each other again). And spare earpieces, too. Simpler ones, for inter-Westeros communication.

"How many?" Beetee asks.

"Three," I say, after a moment's hesitation.

He gives an "ah" of understanding. "For Shireen, Sam, and Gilly?" he guesses.

"Not Shireen. Gale's with her," I tell him. "He left with Stannis's army this morning. We could keep in touch through him, if you can connect us."

"Of course," Beetee says. "The third one would be for Jon, then."

"Sure," I say, albeit halfheartedly. In reality, the third will probably end up being just an extra, since they'll mainly be necessary in the event that after my Benjen confession I'm asked to leave Castle Black. If it comes to that, I don't think Jon will want to keep in touch with me then.

"I did give Gale the multipurpose earpiece prototype I was working on before we switched to the drone project, so you and Gale should be able to connect to each other," Beetee confirms. "These other sets I have right now, I haven't gotten started on them, so they're customizable. I assume you'd rather they connect just to your main earpiece and not to me?"

"Ideally, to reduce confusion," I say. "But make it so they can connect to each other too. Sam and Gilly would like that."

I hear Beetee typing up notes on his computer. "That shouldn't be a problem," he says. "They'll be a bit more basic than the ones you and Gale have, but I can have them ready for you by tonight or tomorrow, unless you want anything else put in. Trackers and cameras and all that."

"No need," I mutter. "I'm the only one who's going anywhere."

"Good point," Beetee says, and I can tell from his voice that he's still in good spirits. "No matter. I might send another drone south when this one's done. But the footage you've shown me from ground-level is excellent so far. You've done great work here, Katniss. I appreciate it. I look forward to seeing Eastwatch and Hardhome from your angle." He types some more. "Lucy Gray, hot chocolate, earpieces… these are only a pittance. Do you have any other requests before I get to it?"

"Just one more thing," I say. "The Mockingjay suit, if you can find it."

I can just picture him raising his eyebrows above his glasses. "The Mockingjay suit?" he repeats. "I thought you didn't want to be the Mockingjay anymore."

"It's purely for practical reasons," I argue. And it is, mostly. As beautiful as it was, Cinna designed it to be practical. Warm, black, and bulletproof, it comes with layers of protective body armor and a belt for concealing weapons, along with a spare black mockingjay pin. "And it goes well with the Night's Watch uniforms."

"So it does," Beetee says, but it sounds like he knows me better. I have no idea what to expect at Hardhome, and I'm hoping this last gift from Cinna still holds some kind of power to it. Whatever it was that it gave me when I wore it – courage, strength, madness – I may need it again, here in Westeros, when I deal with the wildlings.

No, Cinna's final work of art will not gather dust back in Panem. It was made for me. Mockingjay or not, it belongs with me.

Beetee promises to make some calls and ensure he gets hold of it within the week. Satisfied, I let him go so he can get to work. What with the Lucy Gray research, the earpiece configuring, the drone project, and the suit, there's a lot for him to do, but he seems to be glad for it. I guess I would be too if it meant not being alone with my thoughts, which now threaten to go back to Shireen and Gale. At least Beetee has phone calls and drone footage to distract him…

Remembering the last thing Gale said before he left, I hurry across the rookery and down the steps, passing through the maester's quarters again. Sam and Gilly are in there with Aemon and Little Sam. I return their greetings but let them know I'll meet up with them later. First there is something I have to see.

The projector is exactly where I left it, in my room behind the parachute on my nightstand. I pick it up and sit down on my bed, pressing the on button and then searching through its contents until I find what I'm looking for. 10th Games – Lucy Gray Baird. District 12's first victor.

Has Haymitch seen this yet? It feels weird to be watching it in Westeros, and not in the Victor's Village with him or the train with Peeta. Selecting the footage, I preemptively adjust the volume and hit play, then lean back against the headboard with the medallion clutched in my hand.

The recording is a little grainy at first, but it clears up as the anthem plays. That's the first thing I notice – the original version of the anthem, "Gem of Panem." I recognize it from the first nine years' recaps, as well as the eleventh through fifteenth. By the 16th Games, they had it changed to "Horn of Plenty." The Capitol seal dissolves, and President Ravinstill appears in a war uniform, reciting a passage from the Treaty of Treason. Standard stuff, same as the previous years.

But then it goes straight to a stage in front of the Justice Building in District 12, where the mayor at the time reaches into one of two burlap sacks and pulls out a slip of paper. And you can tell he hardly even looks at it, not long enough to read the name, before he announces, "The District Twelve girl tribute is Lucy Gray Baird."

The camera finds her quickly. Lucy Gray is the least gray person there, a literal rainbow in a gathering of storm clouds. She's wearing a ruffly rainbow dress and an eye-catching amount of makeup, with wildflowers carefully woven into her dark brown curls. Even I gasp at the sight of her, but my gasp turns into a shocked laugh as the camera shows her dropping something bright green down a redhead's blouse and then heading to the stage without looking back.

The redhead was smirking, but she's not anymore. She completely loses it, shrieking, writhing, and thrashing on the ground. As the mayor runs offstage to help her, yelling his daughter's name, a green snake wriggles free from this Mayfair's dress and darts into the crowd of onlookers.

As soon as a Peacekeeper leads her away, a shadow of vengeance and rage takes over the mayor's face. He storms back up there, where Lucy Gray is waiting, and he strikes her so hard across the face that she falls to her knees. The Peacekeepers nab him before he can deliver another blow, and you can tell by the way he struggles in their arms that he still wants to, so they drag him into the Justice Building, leaving a battered Lucy Gray on the stage.

The camera gets a close-up on her face, where a bruise has begun to form on the right side of her cheek, and it looks like she might cry. But then a high-pitched voice – a child's voice – starts to sing in the crowd.

"You can't take my past,
You can't take my history…"

My ears perk up. Is that a young Grandma Maude Ivory? Even into old age, her voice has always had a signature squeak. And then a different voice chimes in – deeper, older, male.

"You could take my pa,
But his name's a mystery."

Tam Amber, I realize silently. If that line's alluding to his own heritage. Lucy Gray must recognize them too, because she raises her head, smiles, and gets to her feet. Grabbing the microphone, she sings the next line with her whole heart.

"Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping."

She goes on to wow the audience – and the Peacekeepers – with a performance that almost feels rehearsed, and it occurs to me that maybe it was. The mayor that struck her has to be the same mayor who was accused of killing her. There's no way he didn't rig the reaping at least. But she must've known he would, and she came prepared.

"You can't take my charm.
You can't take my humor.
You can't take my wealth,
'Cause it's just a rumor.
Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping."

She's more like a flower than a songbird, blossoming the more she sings, her skirt swishing like petals as she dances across the stage. With her hair pulled up like mine, the sharp angles in her face, and the Baird eyebrows and nose, she resembles a colorful version of me at the reaping for the 74th Games, if I'd had a beauty to match my mother's at that age and enough makeup to make the Capitol blink twice. The one way she really differs from me is that her skin is not olive-toned but closer to a soft honey shade, a warm gold like the sun.

"Thinking you're so fine.
Thinking you can have mine.
Thinking you're in control.
Thinking you'll change me, maybe rearrange me.
Think again, if that's your goal,
'Cause . . ."

It's almost unreal, watching this, watching her for the first time, and knowing sixty-six years ago a young Snow was seeing this too. This is the song that drew him to her? This rebellious little number? More likely it was her appearance, except that's unnerving too. Is that why he hated me, because I reminded him of her?

Maybe not, I'm thinking the berries still definitely had something to do with it. And she's a lot more… vivacious than I was in Panem. I certainly didn't have a stage presence like hers before Westeros. Our voices are similar on the lows, husky and rich, but she hits high notes a little easier than I do. Still, there's a playful insolence in the way she comes to the front and leans out over the audience, the way she prances around the Peacekeepers, who are making no effort to stop her. I think some of them are fighting smiles.

"You can't take my sass.
You can't take my talking.
You can kiss my ass
And then keep on walking.
Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping."

I'm so pulled in by the performance that I flinch with her when the doors of the Justice Building crash open. The Peacekeepers chase her to the far end of the stage, but she evades them long enough to finish the song.

"No, sir,
Nothing you can take from me is worth dirt.
Take it, 'cause I'd give it free. It won't hurt.
Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping!"

She actually blows the audience a kiss before the Peacekeepers descend on her. "My friends call me Lucy Gray – I hope you will too!" she says merrily. The Peacekeepers manage to steal the microphone away from her and literally carry her back to the middle of the stage, where she uses her free hand to wave. To the cameras, perhaps, because the crowd is dead silent.

Finally, the mayor is brought back out, placed at a safe distance from Lucy Gray. He announces the name of the District 12 male tribute, Jessup Diggs, and a strong, sturdy Seam boy comes to the stage looking like he just crawled out of the coal mines. Lucy Gray turns their obligatory handshake into a deep curtsy while drawing him into a bow, and there's a bit of applause and a whoop from one area of the crowd before the reaping broadcast cuts off, though I'm guessing that was the Covey. They do love a good show.

That's when it hits me, why Snow must've liked her. Why Tigris said he was drawn to her from the start. She was an entertainer, the circus in the "Bread and Circuses." She knew how to give them something to watch and someone to root for. Snow must've known that was exactly what the Games needed.

I feel bad fast-forwarding through the reaping in the other districts, but I see the rest of the tributes the next time I see Lucy Gray – in a cage at the zoo. They didn't have the Tribute Center until after this year, but before this they were housed in horse stables. So this is where they kept them for the 10th Games. The monkey house, where they're unceremoniously dumped in through a chute. The crowd of onlookers and the Capitol News logo in the corner of the footage indicate their arrival is still important enough to broadcast, but the kids – many of them close to Prim's age – look dirty and unfed, a far cry from the future tributes who are supposed to be nourished and prettied up for their chariot rides. I'm about to get outraged when I see an older one that stands out from the rest.

Blond curls framing a handsome face, clean clothes – not so clean after the fall – and a short but healthy and athletic physique. A Career, maybe? He looks like he's been fed a lot more recently. The boy straightens up, tries to look taller than he is, and casts an unimpressed look at the cameras. It's no good, especially when a bunch of the tributes corner him and start taunting him, because you can see him start to get flustered. Sweating forehead, wide blue eyes…

And that's when I recognize him. Not a Career, not a tribute, but a Capitol boy.

It's eighteen-year-old Coriolanus Snow.

I muffle a groan of horror with my cloth-wrapped hand, but it quickly turns to laughter as I revel in his humiliation. No wonder this footage was hidden from the light of day. Coriolanus Snow, caged in the monkey house. I hope the Capitol News played it over and over. I hope Plutarch does the same. It'll be the talk of Panem for weeks, and Snow can't do anything about it now that he's dead.

But then he goes over to Lucy Gray, who is seen putting a flower behind her ear. A white rose. Something only Snow could've given to her. He holds out his hand to her as if asking for a dance, and she takes it with a smile. Satisfied, Snow escorts her to the bars, presenting her to their audience and introducing her to the gawking children. And suddenly I understand what Beetee meant by chemistry. They have it, Snow and Lucy Gray, playing off the cameras and each other with a smooth, mutual charm.

She tells a little girl she's friends with snakes, which yes, would explain her spark with Snow. Lucy Gray Baird, songbird and snake-charmer.

I'm subjected to more onscreen flirting between the two of them, but I endure it to get to know her as she wins over children and cameramen alike. Plus I'm hoping to pick up on clues of her fate. She speaks wistfully of the Covey's past as traveling musicians and expresses no sincere attachment to 12, so I wonder if there's some truth to the theory that she went north. Then, when the Peacekeepers come to get Snow out of there, she delicately dips her hand to him, and he obliges her by taking it and pressing his lips to her skin.

I shudder on her behalf, remembering how they felt on my cheek when they were altered and puffy. At the same time, a smug sense of pleasure fills me, enough to rewind and watch it again with a smirk. She's already playing the game, holding herself like a queen. Like Selyse but with warmth, so basically Shireen. And Coriolanus Snow, acting the gentleman, from this angle is no more than a respectful Night's Watch brother. Olly, maybe, or a young Thorne.

I'd rather not make the more obvious comparison, though the head of curls is hard to ignore. There's a genuine humility in Jon Snow, but he's not the type to kiss for the cameras.

There's another scene at the zoo. It's at night, but the timestamp says it's the same day, July 6th. A reporter catches Snow and Lucy Gray having a picnic together, separated by the cage's metal bars. Apparently Snow's classmate, Sejanus Plinth, came and handed out sandwiches and other treats to the tributes. A good thing, too, as Lucy Gray confirms they haven't eaten in three days. They don't mention it in the tapes of the first nine Games, but I guess the Capitol didn't feed them or gussy them up back then.

Lucy Gray actively suggests to the reporter that people visit the zoo and feed the tributes so that they'll stand a chance of fighting in the arena, then hints at a love of sweet things as she bites into a plum. I think of the lamb stew with rice and dried plums I helped myself to in the Capitol and the Games and can't help wondering if she's the reason for it.

The camera moves to the other tributes, but you can still see Lucy Gray and Snow conversing through the bars in the background until a voice announces that the zoo's closing in fifteen minutes. I see him slip her a handkerchief and start to walk away. And then she starts singing, filling the night air with a voice that makes all the tributes and visitors stop to listen. Including Snow.

"Down in the valley, valley so low…"

The camera zooms in on her in the corner of the cage as she gives her own rendition of the valley song. Soft and melancholy, like my mother's voice when she first started singing again after my father's death. Like she's truly mourning a lover gone, or nursing a broken heart. I'm sure I didn't sound anything like that when I sang it at the school assembly when I was five. But maybe I did after I lost Peeta.

The scene cuts off shortly after her song, but the next part of the footage is the zoo again a day later. There's a larger crowd this time, and again, the kids and the cameras love Lucy Gray and Snow, reporters filming them as visitors drop by to give her simple offerings – a potato, a soup bone, a can of milk. But then the focus shifts to the other tributes, who are taking a page out of Lucy Gray's book and performing for food.

I spot a few people Snow's age, wearing uniforms like his. Fellow students, probably, which means they're the mentors. One girl is hanging out by the cage and talking to her tribute. Lecturing her, more like, and taunting her with a sandwich as she reaches for it through the bars. The audience laughs. The mentor does it again, waves to the crowd, and takes a bite. Her tribute looks angry. She reaches for something else while she's not looking.

It looks like Snow sees the knife right about the same time that I do. He stands up, but it's too late. The tribute grabs her mentor, pulls her toward the bars, and slits her throat.

There's a lot of blood, a lot of screaming from the audience. Snow backs against the bars, looking horrified and disgusted, but if you rewind and look closer, Lucy Gray says something to him, and you can see on his face when he remembers the cameras. He goes to the girl and lowers her to the ground, yelling for a medic as he tries to stop the bleeding, though even I can tell it's pointless. I'm more stunned by the shot of the Peacekeepers gunning down the female tribute.

Killing tributes before they go into the arena… it's totally unheard of. At least until now.

The tribute's face gets thrown in on top of the footage with a cannon sound, followed by her name and district – Brandy from District 10 – which I suspect is a more recent editing addition. Possibly by Plutarch, to show proper respect for the forgotten tributes.

So much for respect, because the next part of the footage is the funeral for the mentor, Arachne Crane, and after I fast-forward through Snow singing the anthem and President Ravenstill's speech, they dangle Brandy's body from a hook right above the rest of the shackled tributes' heads. Swaying there, it reminds me of the Seneca Crane dummy I hanged. The Capitol dedicates the 10th Games to Arachne, and I feel a sense of irony considering what they do to someone from her own family a few decades later.

The next scene is on the same day, July 9th, mere hours after the funeral footage. It's a shot of the arena, but the mentors are inside with the tributes, so I already know what's going to happen here. I could probably venture a guess even if Gale hadn't told me, since the first nine Games were in this very arena and in a brand new one for the eleventh. This was back when they were held in an actual, massive amphitheater, an oval field surrounded by towering rows of seats that tributes could climb into if they had the upper body strength.

The tour begins, and Lucy Gray is seen walking with Snow – naturally, since he's her mentor. They're whispering to each other, standing so close that I can see her nudge him with her elbow. He grins at her, and she says something that makes him laugh. And the world cannot seem to tolerate their flirting any more than I can, because that's the very moment the arena explodes.

It's not from a hovercraft, not anything from above. Possibly bombs implanted in the ground, like the land mines beneath the metal plates in later arenas. I must be right, because after the initial one at the main gate, there's a chain of explosions throughout the arena. There's a lot of smoke and screams, a brief lull, then a final explosion in the stands. Shrapnel flies. Someone gets their legs blown off. Others use their own to make a break for the exit. Multiple voices are crying for help.

Even through the smoke, I see a figure in a singed rainbow skirt darting away from the blown-open doors, towards a pile of flame and rubble. She struggles to lift a beam, which has got to be scorching hot, and I really have to rewind a few times and pause and zoom in, but I get the briefest glimpse of Snow's blond curls through the rubble and smoke before the cameras cut away and a few more tributes' faces take over the screen with added cannon booms.

So it's true. She saved his life. She could have left him to die, saved Panem sixty-five years of trouble, but she didn't.

I want to be resentful, but I know what a life debt feels like. I know what it means to owe someone. It's the reason I fought for Peeta to survive our Games, and it's probably the reason Snow helped Lucy Gray win hers.

After I fast-forward through another two mentors' funerals depicting heinous treatment of more tribute corpses, the next event is on July 16th, Interview Night. And sure enough, standing in front of a twinkling starry sky projected onto a back curtain, Snow humbly presents Lucy Gray and gives her the stage without taking up much of her time. Her hair is done up like the reaping day style, but instead of wildflowers there's a single pink rosebud that matches the one on Snow's lapel. She holds a beautiful gold guitar, which must be from the Snows' musician friend Gale mentioned. Even her rainbow dress looks much improved, and I don't think the Capitol washed district clothes back then. It appears that Coriolanus Snow has been doing some kissing up.

Lucy Gray introduces herself, then sings a haunting ballad that she wrote. Her voice is still clearly affected by the smoke and fire from the bombing, but it sounds good. A little husky, like mine. Going by the lyrics, she's singing about the one who broke her heart. The lines "We fell on hard times and we lost our bright color" and "We sang for our suppers" suggest it's someone from the Covey. They lived their performer lives together, but he left her, betrayed her somehow, and told her she was "no good." In the song, she seems to admit her wrongs, but reminds her lover what they once meant to each other, and warns him that he may lose her for good when she goes into the arena.

Love and tragedy. Even sixty-some years ago, the Capitol is weak for it. In the audience, many hearts are breaking for her. The hush is so quiet, you can hear people sniffling. Then a man shouts "Bravo" and it's instantly followed by applause. Lucy Gray rises from her seat, takes a bow, and reaches out to Snow. It takes him a moment to come to the front of the stage, and when he does, I pause to get a good look at his face. He is not pleased, not nearly as much as he wants the audience to think he is. I know jealousy when I see it, or at least when I can freeze it in a frame. The song is clearly not about him, and he hates it.

For a fleeting moment, I relish in the fact that someone else in my family was able to infuriate him like this. Of course, then I remember she has less than two months before her existence is wiped from Panem.

After that, there's nothing left to show but the 10th Games themselves. The controversial year erased from history, and I'm sure that I'm about to find out why.

It doesn't take long to realize I'm right. The Capitol, not done punishing the rebels for the bombing of the arena, shows the audience it's not messing around by revealing the beaten body of a tribute hanging from manacled wrists on a crossbeam at the main entrance to the arena. It's the District 2 male tribute that escaped during the chaos.

The Games have only just begun and there aren't enough tributes left for a Bloodbath. They scatter into hiding places. When one girl climbs up with an ax and mercy kills the guy from 2, whose name is revealed to be Marcus, only fourteen tributes are left. It drops to thirteen by sunset when the girl from 11 coughs up a bunch of blood. Tuberculosis, clearly. They kept their tributes in horrendous conditions in the early Games. Maybe the Capitol started pampering them when they realized tributes dropping like flies before the Games and early on didn't make for exciting viewing. I've already fast-forwarded through so much and it's only the first day.

Except there's some weird stuff that happens at night. I can't make much out, but a figure emerges by the main entrance and goes to Marcus's body. Another eventually joins him, and they try to move it. I don't think they're tributes. Could they be guards, removing the body? They didn't do that back then until the end of the Games. Kids sneaking in, maybe?

It's nothing to do with Lucy Gray, so I speed past it. But in the morning, another tribute has been mysteriously bludgeoned to death. Twelve down, twelve remaining.

Day Two has the Capitol cut away to the student Sejanus Plinth, who announces a monetary award to cover full tuition at the University for whoever's tribute wins the Games. Then the District 5 girl gets chased and killed with a trident. Later in the day, another chase ensues. Lucy Gray finally comes flying out of her own hiding spot, pursued by her district partner Jessup, who is foaming at the mouth. He's rabid. Probably picked it up from his stay in the zoo.

People who believe they know a thing or two about medicine love to tell my mother when they hear her name that the alyssum flower can be used to cure rabies. Whether that's true or not, it won't be any help to Lucy Gray here. What's more effective is the drone that flies towards them in the stands bringing a bottle of water. Those afflicted with rabies fear water due to their inability to drink it. The sight of the water agitates Jessup, and he swats at it. More water bottles come in. Jessup flees, tumbles, and falls from a height onto the field. His bones snap loudly on impact.

Lucy Gray climbs down and comforts him as he dies, but that water has saved her life. Gifts from the District 12 mentors, Snow and Lysistrata. Now, thanks to them, only nine other tributes stand in the way of her victory.

Not much is seen of her on Day Three, so I almost miss quite a bit when I fast-forward. A District 4 and 10 alliance successfully kills District 7's girl but ends in betrayal. The morning of Day Four, the girl from 8 finally appears, skeletally thin and clutching an empty water bottle. Her mentor sends a bunch of drones to her, but she's utterly dazed. She drinks a little water and promptly dies, which strikes me as suspicious, but now we're down to seven.

The real action happens when Head Gamemaker Dr. Gaul makes a surprise announcement. Another mentor has died from injuries sustained from the bombing, so she has a special punishment planned for the rebels' children in the Games. A large drone drops off a container in the arena. Its walls fall, and dozens of bright, colorful snakes go flying in every direction. A swarm overtakes the boy from 3, and dozens more bite the legs of the girl from 4. The two of them die in agony, streaked in pink, yellow, and blue, wounds spitting out pastel-colored pus from the venom that the mutts have pumped into them.

The other tributes flee in time or desperately try to climb the poles, but a horde of snake mutts waits for them at the bottom. Then the arena picks up on a familiar melodic voice, and suddenly Lucy Gray emerges from her tunnel, singing and swaying and slowly walking backwards. Following her are half a dozen snakes, and countless more crawl out while the others in the arena migrate to where she is. None of them are attacking her, they all just seem to be attracted to either her song or her scent.

For it to be her song doesn't make any sense. We have snakes at home in the woods and near the lake in District 12, and as musical as my father was, he always watched out for them. They have no external ear so they can't hear very well. But somehow, Lucy Gray has lured them to her, and now she's got them spellbound. They must have smelled something on her that they like. When she sits on a chunk of marble, they crawl onto her skirt, their colors blending perfectly with the rainbow ruffles, and she sings them her siren song of the old therebefore as the cameras close in on her. Lucy Gray the snake-charmer strikes again.

No doubt this scene was a real hit in the Capitol, but the Gamemakers must have hated it. Just as I, the Girl on Fire, was assaulted with fireballs in my first arena, I'm pretty sure the rainbow girl who played with snakes at the reaping was supposed to get taken down by them, not serenade them. It turns the mutts into a joke, a prop for a district girl's performance. But how could she have gotten them to like her, especially when this surprise attack was just announced? They would've needed to recognize her before then, know her scent somehow...

Then I hear Gale's voice in my head. "The final straw was when one of the mentors cheated and smuggled things in the arena..."

Snow. He was around her enough. He must've had something of hers. Being a student at the university, he could've had access to the snake mutts and exposed them to her scent before the Gamemakers sent them in.

No matter how Snow or Lucy Gray managed it, she is now in the final five. And by the morning of Day Five, many dead snakes lie scattered over the arena, drowned by an overnight storm. Now that the tributes can roam freely again, and there are only five of them left, more things start to happen. Teslee from District 3 hacks the drones being sent to Mizzen from 4; they glitch like they have more food to give him, and the resulting swarm knocks him off the crossbeam to his death. As Teslee hugs her drone in celebration, Treech from 7 leaps from behind her and puts an ax in her head.

Around noon, Lucy Gray reappears and lingers by a rain puddle. She swishes some water from it in her water bottle, then pours it back into the puddle for some reason. At first it's like she's rinsing out the bottle, but she only collects an inch or so for swishing, and she's already drunk straight from the puddle and even washed her face with the rainwater, so what's the point?

I rewind a few times before I get a sense of what she might be doing. Lacing the puddle with something that was already in the bottle. Poison? Where would she have gotten poison?

The answer comes to me just as the gift-bearing drones reach Lucy Gray. Where else? I think to myself. Snow.

She's counting the bodies of the dead tributes that have been gathered, probably figuring out how many it's down to, when she bolts suddenly and Treech jumps out from the barricade to pursue her with his ax. He grabs her by the arm and if I didn't know the outcome I'd think this was the end for her, but right as the ax swings down, she throws herself into his arms and locks him into an odd little embrace, dodging the blade. They hold each other for a moment, until his eyes grow wide and he shoves her away. Dropping the ax, he yanks a bright pink snake from his neck and frantically beats it into the ground before collapsing from the effects of the venom.

After composing herself, Lucy Gray waves to the audience. The Capitol surely loves this, but I'm thrown by how gutsy a move that was. Snow couldn't have told her to do that. This girl is as cunning as the snakes she hides in her pockets.

She has herself a little picnic with the sponsor gifts like she doesn't know she's one of the last two, either that or she's very confident. Snow keeps sending her food, since according to the Games' newscast they're the most popular mentor and tribute pair. With her bounty eaten and stored in her pockets, she relaxes on some rubble for so long that I decide to fast-forward, despite admiring her shamelessness.

Mid-afternoon sees Lucy Gray get up at last, looking a tad impatient. Her lone competitor, Reaper from District 11, hasn't done much of anything either, so the self-defense strategy is out. She baits him a few times, getting too close to his makeshift morgue and touching the flag pieces he uses to cover the bodies, both things he's immensely protective over. Then she taunts him into a little game of "capture the flag," forcing him to give chase. He recovers the flag after she ditches it to hide in the stands, but he's panting hard. Immediately I recognize the symptoms of heatstroke.

He needs water, I can just hear my mom saying, giving her usual healer commentary during the Games. And then I realize Lucy Gray's gameplan here. Reaper staggers to the one rain puddle, drops down, and gulps as much water as he can. Then he sits back and gets a weird look on his face. Kneading his chest as if in pain, he vomits half the water and keeps retching. My suspicions are confirmed when he trudges to the morgue with the flag and falls down dead with the rest of the bodies.

And there it is. Lucy Gray Baird becomes the first victor of District 12, and winner of the 10th Hunger Games.

The host, Lucky Flickerman, announces it as Snow's victory along with Lucy Gray's. But it doesn't matter because no glory was gained for either of them. There was no Victor's Village back then, no fame and wealth for Lucy Gray, and any celebration Snow had must've been short-lived. If I can tell something's fishy about the snakes and the water, so can the Gamemakers. That's why the 10th Games were erased, and that's why they made the esteemed Coriolanus Snow quietly join the Peacekeepers. They probably shipped him off to 12 before he could say "poison."

But what happened next? What happened between them that August in District 12, almost exactly sixty-six years ago, that culminated in her disappearance? Did he pay her back and save her life, only to end up taking it? Was saving him in the arena a mistake after all? Her family did get her back for a month, only to end up losing her again.

All I've learned is that Lucy Gray is a songbird and a snake-charmer, that Snow risked his neck to save her life after she saved his. Or maybe he just cheated to win. But he got sloppy, and he got caught, and they sent him to the districts as a Peacekeeper.

Though obviously his fall from grace was as short-lived as his romance with Lucy Gray, since from what I remember of Finnick's secrets, Snow went on to study military strategy at the University and begin a Gamemaker internship when he was still eighteen. That would've been after the 10th Games, in fall or winter.

So Snow began his rise to power, and the girl who inspired his brief period of trouble in the first place inexplicably went missing around the same time. No, that's not suspicious at all…

I can't help but wonder if he really loved Lucy Gray once. Or do all romances between songbirds and Snows get entangled in a mesh of music and mystery and lies? Moreover, how did their love story end? Did he kill her, did he abandon her for power, did she get murdered by the mayor or her former lover or simply vanish from his life? Sure, Hazelle and Greasy Sae said the Covey found her supplies in the house by the lake, but is it too foolish to hope that she really did go north and find someone better than a snake like Snow? Even if it meant leaving everything behind, something I of all people would understand.

Maybe it's better not to know. On the other hand, maybe I should request that they comb the woods and search the great depths of the lake, or else Lucy Gray's fate is a mystery that I'll go mad trying to solve.

Because if history is repeating itself, if this is the second time a Baird descendant has escaped the Games alive and fallen for a man named Snow, then it appears that with Jon I have reached a whole new level of star-crossed romance.

And I need to find out how doomed we are.

Chapter Text

I might've guessed it from my time with Shireen, but a fortnight passes a lot faster than I thought it would.

Life at Castle Black without a Baratheon army to feed and entertain is a bit of an adjustment, but so was taking care of my family at eleven, finding refuge at District 13 after the Capitol bombed 12, and being sent back to 12 after Coin's assassination. As always, I make do, and the days blink by in a blur as I find ways to fill the Shireen-shaped hole in them.

There's Sam and Gilly, of course. I rejoin them, Maester Aemon, and Little Sam after binge-watching the footage and manage to act like nothing is amiss, even though my mind is already brimming with theories. Sitting next to them while Sam goes over papers and raven scrolls, and Gilly tends to Aemon and brings him his meals, I hold baby Sam in my arms and try to put my thoughts together regarding the fate of Lucy Gray. By late afternoon, from the maester's quarters to working with Gilly in the kitchens, I have a list of possibilities going.

One is that she broke it off with Snow after surviving the Games and flew away, as songbirds are wont to do, which was why he was so bitter towards the districts, thinking them heartless and ungrateful, but that seemed too pathetic even for Snow. Another is that the repentant Covey ex-lover from the interview song came back into the picture, relieved that she survived the arena and begging for another chance, and she made her choice and they ran away together. Or maybe Snow killed him and Lucy Gray in a jealous rage. Which would explain why I know so little about this mysterious sixth Covey member, but that just adds another body on top of the one that was never found.

Death or disappearance, whatever her fate, I soon notice that most of my ideas stem from petty daydreams where Lucy Gray broke Snow's heart. But what if he broke hers? Or maybe they both ended up hurting each other. Maybe she trusted him when she shouldn't have, and maybe he realized she wasn't who he thought she was. Once his precious victor and songbird had lost her novelty, her charm... what would Snow do with her then?

Before supper, Jon dredges me free of those thoughts when he seeks me out to discuss Hardhome further. We walk along the courtyard toward the dining hall as he gives me the gist of things, some of which I already know. There's been thousands of years of enmity between the Night's Watch and the wildlings, but there was also infighting between the various wildling tribes before Mance united them. With him gone, they'll look to a man named Tormund to lead, so Jon will be bringing him along, but we should still expect some hostility and unrest.

Unrest I can deal with, so we move on to preparations and travel. He almost balks when I admit I've never ridden a horse before. "Well, not directly on one," I say, and mention the chariots from the tribute parade. Those horses liked me, and I do know how to get them to stop and go.

Jon isn't convinced. "Three to five days is a long way to travel for a beginner," he warns.

Resolute, I cross my arms. "Gale probably has less experience with horses than I do, and he's riding one right now," I counter.

"And on a journey four times as long, he's likely to be miserable," says Jon.

We eventually settle on a solution. Jon suggests that I take a horse and practice riding every day until we leave. That way, at least I'll have some experience, and the horse will have time to get used to me. He simply asks that I bring Ghost with me for protection, and so he can get exercise and time to roam beyond the Wall. If anything goes wrong with the horse, like there's an accident or something, Ghost can come back to the Wall for help. I like the idea since it's a good excuse to go out and receive things from Beetee now that I might not need to go hunting as often.

The next morning, after I feed the ravens, Jon fetches from the stables a beautiful black horse with white spots on its muzzle and legs. When he gives me his hand to help me onto her, I stare at it for a moment as the scene in the zoo of Snow presenting his hand to Lucy Gray resurfaces in my mind. Blinking the thought away, I accept the gesture and easily climb onto the saddle. There aren't any active cameras. He's not putting on a performance for anyone. This is just Jon being Jon.

He keeps the horse steady and calm as I get a feel for the saddle and the reins. There are a few men training in the courtyard, but the only person I notice really paying any attention to us is Olly. He watches with wariness, somewhat like Buttercup in the courtyard yesterday, eyebrows scrunched up with question as if even the sight of me on a horse is suspicious to him. Though, in his defense, I don't usually need a horse when I go hunting. Or Ghost, who follows me to the opening gate as I approach it at a safe trot.

Ghost and I take quickly to the arrangement. I'm not a complete natural or anything, and it takes a few days to get used to it, but riding agrees with me. It gets me to the lake and the weirwood tree faster, and you can't feel the wind blowing through your hair when you travel by train or hovercraft, or bond with them like you can with horses. Of course, trains and hovercrafts aren't startled by direwolves, but Jon made sure to choose a horse that knows Ghost well enough, and Ghost is happy to maintain a comfortable distance as we venture through the woods together.

My running theory is that Jon only inhabits Ghost's body when he's asleep, so I'm counting on that when I stop by the weirwood tree and receive parachutes from Beetee. Ghost cocks his head as soon as he hears the chirp, and watches intently as they drop down, but save for a few inquisitive wolf noises when I talk to Beetee, he doesn't make a huge fuss about it. Even stops being fazed by it after a few days of this, electing to wander or get a drink from the lake while Beetee and I discuss updates on the drone or the Games or Lucy Gray.

The first day I'm out there, it's lucky we bring up the drone when we do, because Beetee goes to check on it and finds that it's flying east over nothing but ocean. He makes it turn around and head back to land while he's still connected to me, and later adjusts its course north to Storrold's Point. He laughs over the mistake, so at least he's enjoying himself, but he does wonder what he would see if he kept going east.

"If it doesn't run out of battery and fall into the water?" I ask. "Skagos, maybe, if you're lucky. You're too far north to reach Essos."

"Then going west after this is my best bet," Beetee considers. "After Hardhome, that is. West and then north, to the Fist of the First Men and beyond."

"Well, have fun exploring the north. But don't go too far away," I say. "I don't think the white walkers are going backwards."

"Unless, of course, they're pulling a Lucy Gray and playing snake," he says with a laugh. I don't get it, so I respond with confused silence. Beetee awkwardly attempts to explain, "You see, Snake is a very old game that used to be played on computers, where… never mind. Don't worry, Katniss, I'll see what there is to see and then come back around. But first, to Hardhome."

Sure enough, that evening after supper, Beetee connects to my earpiece to let me know that he got Hardhome within his sights, lit up by wildling campfires, before he landed the drone in a discreet location outside a wooden gate and recalled it there so as not to arouse suspicion. The second morning I go out for riding practice, Beetee informs me he already released the drone again at first light and flew it over Hardhome, and with no white walkers in sight, he's got it flying west while he studies the footage. I remind him not to forget about it and to consult the map I recorded since I'm pretty sure, being on a peninsula, there's a stretch of Shivering Sea between Hardhome and the rest of the north.

Personally, I think he should've just released it at Craster's Keep again and gone north from there, since hours of open water can't be worth the footage. When I tell him so, he laughs and agrees, but admits he likes filling out the map he's making as accurately as possible, within reason of course. He also informs me that Paylor and Plutarch are making the 10th Games public today. They've already played a recap as a preview this morning, dedicating it to the memory and the mystery of Lucy Gray, but they'll be doing a full news special later in the day and putting out my request for more information. Beetee has already made his own request that anything they learn should be reported straight to him.

"Whether we learn anything or not… today, August 18th, will be one for the history books," Beetee says seriously. "A month after the true anniversary of the 10th Games, but better late than never. Lucy Gray's song will finally be sung for the first time in sixty-six years. And this time, all of Panem will get to hear it."

I appreciate Beetee's semi-subtle way of reminding me what day it is there – one small way I let myself feel still rooted to Panem – but I can't help wondering what was really going on around this time in 12 all those years ago. What kind of trouble Snow might have been stirring up back then, for himself, for his Peacekeeper buddies, for Lucy Gray and the Covey. Was he already planning a betrayal? Did she have any idea yet what kind of person he really was? Or did the realization not come until it was too late, when he finally showed her his true colors?

Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself with the speculations. Poorly masked distractions from my multiple other concerns, that's all they are. I don't hear from Gale until three days after they left, and even then, understandably, he doesn't pass the mic off to Shireen. He waited three days until he dared wander away from the army and talk to me, to avoid suspicion. We agree, me begrudgingly so, that Shireen's not ready for the communication devices. Instead, Gale assures me that she's fine, that they've been getting along pretty well and she's been alternating between talking to him about her books and asking him stuff about me. She particularly likes the story of how we got Prim her goat.

He also says that Ser Davos overheard him telling her about my fight with the black bear over a beehive, and had joked that he had no idea the song "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" was based on a true story. Shireen had laughed so hard at that. I laugh too just hearing about it, happy that both Davos and Gale are with her when I can't be. And meanwhile, he and Stannis have spoken some more, mostly about war and Westeros and Panem, and there have been a couple of moments of world-related confusion but he's talked his way out of them. Once with Melisandre's help. When prodded, Gale laughingly – albeit awkwardly – describes her as "very forward."

"Be careful," I warn him, nudging the bag with the compressed Mockingjay suit I received from Beetee this morning under my bed. "I think she and Stannis have some sort of thing."

"Isn't he married with a kid?" he points out.

"Wasn't I engaged and pregnant?" I say wryly, then glance at my door to ensure it's not ajar.

Gale snorts in my ear. "Fair enough. I'm not interested, anyway," he says, prompting my scoff of disbelief. "Really. I'm a bit skeptical of her motives. It's like she's trying to divert me somehow."

"Well, don't let her," I say. "You're a soldier, not her plaything. Princesses take priority over sexy witches."

"I know, Catnip," says Gale, and I can't tell if he sounds more amused or annoyed. "I'm pretty sure she already knows what I'm capable of."

Annoyed it is, then. I brush it off and let him go, so he can get back to wherever it is Stannis and company are staying and I can head to the dining hall for supper.

I'm grateful for the update, though. Beetee's doing a sweep of the Haunted Forest and going back towards Craster's Keep like I suggested before he goes north to the Fist of the First Men, and there's no news from yesterday's footage, so this morning was mostly about receiving the Mockingjay suit and getting in some riding practice. But word has gotten around that I'm coming along for the Hardhome trip, so I start getting some unreadable looks from the Night's Watch brothers who don't like Jon.

It's an added stressor I don't need, so I continue to find refuge in the library and the maester's quarters with Sam and Gilly. Moreso in the latter, as contrary to what he claimed in the rookery, Maester Aemon's health is in fact on its decline. Despite this, he remains cheerful as ever, and I find myself taking over whenever Sam has other steward duties or Gilly has to care for Baby Sam and they need to leave him with someone.

Like Shireen, Aemon is easy to talk to, and enjoys listening to me share about my life back in Panem and my mother's apothecary business. But since he's much older than Shireen, and a maester at that, I'm able to get a bit more candid and clinical about some of the grisly details. He's seen it all before, back when he had his vision, and treated worse cases since he lost it. He even laughs when I admit to bolting from the house all the way to the woods at the sight of the one miner's charred, gaping thigh wound. Or maybe he's laughing about how my nine-year-old sister was the one who stayed with my mother to help.

I tell him about my grandparents' apothecary shop where my mother worked before she married my father, about her being Grandma Rosemary's own little assistant at Prim's age and using her healing skills to tend to whipping and burn victims at mine, and about my father's wooing her through his songs and the medicinal herbs he gathered in the woods to sell to her. He's intrigued when I mention our family plant book, started ages ago by Grandpa Comfrey's herbalist aunt, passed on to Grandma Rosemary when she expressed interest, and continued by my father with entries on plants for eating rather than healing. One day, I bring my handheld device that has the pages saved on them and read a few things to him. Some things he's familiar with, other details he's impressed by, but he seems to like my personal stories best. Harvesting dandelions in the Meadow with Prim, searching the woods for plants while using my father's illustrations as a guide, and finding katniss tubers in a pond late that summer.

Aemon also has just as much of a fondness for music as Shireen does, so I sing to him sometimes. One of his favorite songs, he says, is "Rose of Gold," which is apparently a common song in the Reach.

"I don't think I know that one yet," I say apologetically, when he requests it.

"My mother and sister Talla used to sing it all the time back in Horn Hill," Sam chimes in. "I could teach you."

And that's how I find out Sam can sing a little and has a younger sister – well, sisters, plural – but teach me he does. It's a romantic song, merry and warm, about a girl from House Tyrell with something of an identity crisis. She doesn't want to be loved for her wealth or beauty, since it's only gotten her pricked by thorns, so she uproots herself from Highgarden and takes on a disguise, fleeing the Reach to see the world. She travels from the Rose Road to the Kingsroad, where she meets a guy from King's Landing who is headed north. They share the road and she falls in love with him along the way, but believes she has finally found someone that money can't buy – a man with his heart set on joining the Night's Watch.

It turns out he's in love with her too, but he has his reasons for wanting to take the black. Then their pasts catch up with them at an inn, ravens and bards alike having spread the word of their disappearances, and both of their identities are revealed to each other. He's secretly a prince who would rather marry for love or not at all. She's not a commoner, but a highborn lady. This, of course, is a match their parents would have gladly arranged for them, but instead the lovers are glad to have gotten to know each other truly beforehand and fallen for each other this way. Though, they amend at their wedding, they should have known all along, for he was noble as a prince, and she had a golden heart and flowers in her hair.

I like the song. It's a ballad, longer than "The Hanging Tree" or the Meadow song, but its melody is simple and sweet and I'm not only able to learn it fast but hit all the high notes smoothly. It's also one of the happier ballads I know, a familiar and charming fairytale aspect with an ending that's satisfying instead of tragic or gruesome.

"I hear they played it at King Joffrey and Queen Margaery's wedding," Sam had noted, the first time he'd sung it and I'd shared my thoughts.

"Oh," I'd said, and shrugged. "Well, so much for that."

Sam had laughed, and Gilly knew as much about Joffrey as I did, so enough to crack a grin. Whether his uncle killed him or not, the word is that it's called the Purple Wedding because Joffrey met his death by poison that looked like choking, clawing at his own throat until he was purple in the face. Happy ending for that Tyrell girl, at least, since she ended up marrying his younger brother. Though, according to the ravens, that marriage hasn't been without its own challenges.

One thing that stands out about the song, though, is the message at the end about seeing the rose of gold for her "true" beauty and worth, or the lovers falling for the more authentic versions of each other. It eats at me, and I can't help speaking up once after I've finished singing it to Aemon while we're alone.

"The song says they got to know and love the real versions of each other," I say. "But isn't the point kind of that they had to lie about who they were first? Names, titles, backgrounds… I mean, if they had to hide things from each other to fall in love – if it would have mattered, made a difference, if he knew where she came from or she knew about his claim to the throne…" I'm rambling and anxious, so I let out a slow sigh. "Were they wrong not to say anything?"

Aemon thinks for a moment. "Perhaps it's just my King's Landing upbringing," he says. "But the lies in the song never bothered me. Never even struck me as lies." He finds my hand and gives it a pat. "The girl's secrets were her own, and the real her was whoever she wanted it to be. The one I loved kept a great many things to herself, and yet I loved her still. It was no more dishonest of her to snuff out a painful past than it was for me to renounce my claims as a Targaryen and choose a maester's chain over a crown."

I smile weakly. His response is reassuring in some respects, but I wonder if he'd feel the same if the secrets involved his family. "What happened between the two of you, Maester Aemon?" I ask, curious yet also wanting to change the subject.

"A rather different ending, I'm afraid," he answers honestly, which I already guessed with him being at Castle Black. "At her encouragement, I chose to commit to my vows as a maester of the Citadel, and later as a brother of the Night's Watch. We parted ways, and I never saw her again."

My heart sinks a little, slowly cracking on his behalf. Yes, that sounds like the more realistic ending. "You told Jon once that love is the death of duty," I say softly. "It sounds more like duty is the death of love."

Aemon contemplates this silently, then harrumphs with a slight smile. "Tell that to Samwell Tarly," he replies. "I doubt he'd let anyone send Gilly and her child through that gate again unless he was going with her." A few seconds pass as I mull over how true that is, before Aemon's mouth pulls into a sly grin. "Remind me again, my dear, when will you and Jon Snow be departing for Hardhome?"

Despite myself, I laugh, because Aemon's surprisingly clever wit has not yet left him.

That particular conversation happened on the fifth day since Shireen left, but I already had a lot on my mind from the day before. Beetee's drone was still soaring over the Haunted Forest with no sign of an undead army, but he did have a different update for me. Greasy Sae had watched the 10th Games, he said, and hearing Lucy Gray's interview song had jogged enough memories for her to reach out to him using the number I left in my letter. He proceeded to connect me to her, and after gushing over how good it is to hear my voice, she divulged what she had remembered.

The song was likely about Billy Taupe Clade, she told me. A name that only faintly rings a bell, on top of it being her last name, but definitely Covey. She was married to his little brother, Clerk Carmine Clade, once fondly known as the CC to her Greasy – and yes, the jokes got old. Unlike Billy Taupe, who as she recalls was shot dead that summer, along with Mayfair Lipp, the mayor's daughter from the reaping. Apparently, in Greasy Sae's words, he had been "going around with her" that summer.

The line from the interview song, "Too bad I'm the bet that you lost in the reaping," made a lot more sense after that. The way the mayor didn't look at the name on the paper, the snake down Mayfair's dress, the relationship between her and Billy Taupe… they definitely rigged it. And the Covey knew, hence the rehearsed song and the fact that I've heard so little about him.

"So her ex-boyfriend and the girl he left her for? They were both murdered that summer?" I'd asked cautiously. There was an obvious culprit at the front of my mind, but I couldn't ignore the fact that Lucy Gray had just come back from the arena. Then again, her weapon of choice was poison.

"It happened while she and the Covey were onstage for a performance," Greasy Sae assured me. "Your grandma found the bodies after. Mayor Lipp still blamed Lucy Gray, of course, but you saw what he was like. No, I promise you, that girl had had enough of death. And who could blame her, after that whole bloody year? The coal mine explosion, the Games, the hangings. I must've blocked it out of my mind until now. If you ask me, if Mayor Lipp didn't kill her, I say she just ran for it. Even if it was with just the clothes on her back…"

My mind raced at all this new information. I wanted to ask her about the explosion and the hangings, but I was stuck on the truth. Snow did it. It had to be Snow. And if the mayor thought I had killed his daughter, I would want to make a run for it too. It made me wonder if Snow did kill Lucy Gray, just indirectly. She fled into the woods, into the hungry jaws of a bear or the ironic venomous snake, and he left behind the mess he'd caused for the comforts of the Capitol.

I still had questions, but it was something. When I asked Greasy Sae how I could thank her, her response was swift.

"Call your mother," she'd said. "Don't think I don't remember your daddy's birthday is coming up. You reach out to her on that day, if not sooner. She's probably thinking of you."

"Sooner" didn't happen since other things came up, like obsessively rewatching the 10th Games footage for more clues and learning "Rose of Gold" and other songs from the Reach and singing to Maester Aemon. Not to mention, the sixth day comes with a bizarre update from Beetee that his drone got knocked down somehow. Whether it be by a bird, a terrible icy gust of wind, a rock or an arrow, he couldn't immediately tell, but it got damaged and plummeted to the ground, its blades harmed or rusty and unable to function. Before he could recall it, the camera spied a girl in the distance. Noticing it, she walked over, hesitantly picked it up and examined it, then brought it with her into a very strange-looking cave.

The still-working camera had showed him an old man tangled up in what looked like the branches of a tree, a boy who appeared to be sleeping, a peculiar young girl with cat-like eyes – gold-green and glowing – wearing a cloak of leaves, and what he thought was a direwolf resting inside. When the first girl asked what it was, the man in the tree claimed it was "a raven in its own regard" that seemed to have damaged its wings, and it would be wise to take it back outside. Before she could do that, unfortunately, someone off-camera with large, clumsy hands grabbed it and broke it further. While Beetee does find the footage fascinating, he ends up having to program a new drone and release it the next morning.

I'm curious about it as well, but the "cloak of leaves" part instantly gets the Meadow song stuck in my head, reminding me of my grandmother and subsequently of Lucy Gray, whose footage takes priority right now. By the seventh day, I've watched it so frequently and listened so closely for clues that I accidentally start picking up her accent, which is stronger than mine with more of a drawl to it, like Grandma Maude Ivory's. Some of the Night's Watch brothers notice and tease me about it. Well, Edd, Halder, and Jeren tease, but Jon is quick to agree and does a poor job of fighting back a grin.

"Oh, you think this is an accent? You never heard Grandma Maude Ivory lecture me when I was little. It sounded more like…" I say, and conjure up my best embellished impersonation of her high-pitched chickadee-like voice. "Katniss Everdeen, now what're you doin' out of bed so late? I keep tellin' you, you've got to go to bed with the birds if you want to greet them at dawn." I pause, letting them laugh while the memory of my freshly four-year-old self creeps back to me. "I know you want to see the baby. Sweetheart, Primrose is three days old. And in a crib. That child is behind bars, she's not goin' nowhere." I give a dramatic lift of my eyebrows for good measure, just as Grandma Maude Ivory had done. "Now if you see her climb out of that thing and go for a walk, let me know... that would be a damn miracle..." They laugh harder as I pretend to flinch. "Don't tell your mama and daddy I said that in front of you. My stars, listen to me. Cursing in front of my own grandchild..." I pretend to look at them hopefully. "You want a sweet? 'Cause I could go for a sweet."

Her infamous sweet tooth. How could I forget? Back then, Grandma Rosemary would usually have something sugary for her whenever they both visited, which I guess makes more sense after my mother told me last year that her friend Maysilee's parents owned the sweet shop. Probably Grandma was still close with the Donners or something. But it always struck me as funny since Maude Ivory was clearly over a decade older than her. Even so, after Grandpa Comfrey died, Grandma Rosemary took to visiting us more, so she and Grandma Maude Ivory would sit down to tea together, looking for all the world – despite Rosemary's dark hair and blue eyes – like they might as well be sisters.

I'm pondering this flood of memories when I register that Edd is still snickering over my pronunciation of "grandchild," so I promptly hit him with my sternest, no-nonsense Maude Ivory Everdeen squint. "Don't you be makin' fun of me now, Dolorous Edd," I say lowly.

Edd looks thrown for all of two seconds, until neither of us can keep a straight face anymore and I start cracking up. Though I'm mildly concerned that her old warning of "you keep wearing your face like that and it's going to freeze that way" applies to accents as well because I can't seem to shake myself of it.

"Well, Rosemary, two grandbabies in four years, both of them born in the month of May… Honey, does your daughter know she can just get Gary a shaving kit for his birthday?" I say, and then my eyes go wide with shock as I clamp a hand over my mouth. "Oh, I just realized what she meant by that."

Westeros, I'm certain, doesn't have month names like Panem does, but Jon and Edd can still put the pieces together a lot faster than Younger Katniss can. It's either that or the scandalized look on my face – or the way the mortification instantly knocked the accent out of me – that gets them cackling and guffawing while I roll my eyes at the epiphany. It doesn't help that I spot Olly from not that far away, staring at me like I've grown an extra head. He glances away when I catch him, but the confusion is still etched on his face. Confusion and a furrowed brow, as if thinking hard. I'm guessing he's not trying to decipher my grandmother's comment, but I don't know what to make of his reaction, so I shift my eyes back to Jon.

"Now that is a proper Appalachian accent, Jon Snow," I say, and then make a face at myself and enunciate again. "Jon – Snow. Sorry, I need to stop talking like that. It's like she possessed me for a moment."

Jon grins. "I've never heard anything quite like it in Westeros," he says.

A light laugh escapes me. "Probably for the best."

Shaking his head, he echoes the chuckle. "It has its charm," he offers.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Edd turn to Halder and Jeren. "Are we still here?" he asks under his breath.

We take the hint and get back on track, but the change in energy is a little embarrassing, so I flee with Gilly as soon as she passes by to help Hobb in the kitchens. Before supper, I hear from Beetee and then Gale. The drone has seen what Beetee assumes is the Fist of the First Men and is now exploring more mountainous areas. My guess is he'll be in the Frostfangs soon if the drone can navigate the area safely. Gale's closer to a place called the Last Hearth, having gotten away from the army to hunt. He tells me Shireen's been sharing her books with him and asking about his siblings, seeming wistful when he told her about his two little brothers and a sister. I'm just telling him about Jon's five siblings, and he's making some sort of comment when suddenly I hear a woman's voice in the background and he cuts me off quickly. Selyse, maybe, or Melisandre coming to find him.

The eighth day is my father's birthday, so I do as Greasy Sae advised and have Beetee connect me to my mother. Sitting at the edge of the green lake beyond the Wall, I hear her voice for the first time in over a month and remember how helpless I felt at eleven during those three months when she was lost to me. Thanks to Beetee, I don't have to be lost to her. Not completely.

I'm vague about the details of Westeros, but I do tell her that the place where I'm staying has a massive library, which draws her attention. My mother has always loved books, a trait she inherited from her own mother. Her parents had a small collection of them, ranging from plant and medicine books to fairytales and old legends. With Grandma Maude Ivory's tattered old books of songs, poetry, and folklore from her homeschooled Covey days, we practically had a meager library of our own. After Grandma Rosemary died, we ended up having to sell and trade most of her books to get by, which deeply upset me, but my father knew many of the stories by heart and promised to tell them to me at bedtime.

Of course, then he died less than a year later, and the plant book became the only book that mattered to me, as I had to focus on more important things like not starving to death. But after I won the Games, books were the first things I bought for us. Some of our old copies were actually on the Undersees' bookshelves, which I noticed when I started visiting Madge that year. She gave them back to me free of charge, as thanks for wearing her pin, and my mother happily stacked them on the shelves in the study of our house in the Victor's Village.

She's seen the 10th Games, and luckily is more than glad to talk primarily about Lucy Gray. I tell her what Greasy Sae mentioned, and remember to ask her if she's heard about the coal mine explosions and hangings. She notes that it happened over two decades before she was born, but she believes she remembers her grandfather saying that a man tried to sabotage coal production that summer and accidentally killed three people as a result. Her grandfather had been the healer at the time, and thought the whole thing was terribly sad, but the man's hanging was even sadder. He said he would never forget the way the mockingjays echoed his last cries to his lover, who just three weeks later was hanged along with a young Peacekeeper for treason.

A chill runs through me at her story. For some reason, it sounds terribly familiar, but I can't put my finger on why. I change the subject and give her my thoughts on the Games, and we both agree that Wovey – the girl from District 8 – and Reaper died of poison. It's extremely validating to get confirmation from a healer's perspective. She updates me on the hospital and I tell her about Gilly's exceptional wound-stitching and Maester Aemon being impressed by the entries in the plant book. I mention Sam, Jon, and Shireen too, but Shireen only vaguely. I can't risk the reminder of Prim today. It's too painful, too fresh. The talk of healers is risky enough. At least her husband's death was over six years ago. We fill our conversation with warm memories and I tell her I love her before the connection breaks.

When I'm done, I switch back to Beetee and let him know, and he says, "Speaking of birthdays..."

By the time I've returned to the weirwood, and the parachute is floating to the ground, I still can't believe it. Not even when I open the shell and hold the chip in the palm of my hand. But he's done it. He's found the footage. Or somebody has procured it for him. I barely hear the explanation. Something about an archive, and a Peacekeeper from District 3 who snuck a camera along when he was assigned to 12. If Commander Hoff had a problem with it, he must've let it slide in exchange for filming his birthday celebration. Unless it got confiscated afterwards. Thanking Beetee profusely, I ride back to Castle Black to watch it on the projector in my room.

The footage isn't as pristine as it would be for the Games, but it's more than decent considering the circumstances. Looks like they set the camera up all the way at the back, discreetly positioned on top of something so you can see the stage and the audience. Still close enough to get a good look at each Covey member as they take to the stage. It's somewhat of a shock to see a young version of Grandma Maude Ivory. With her buttercup-yellow dress, fresh face, tiny frame, and blonde curls, she's practically the spitting image of Prim. The rest of the Covey join her in the happy birthday song, one by one. Tam Amber, tall and nearly expressionless like his great-grandson. Clerk Carmine, modestly clutching his fiddle. Barb Azure, striding onto the stage with a wave. And Lucy Gray herself, wearing the rainbow dress from the arena.

Surely she hasn't been wearing it all summer? Since she mentioned it was her mother's, it must be her special occasion dress.

The first thirty minutes of footage are an absolute treasure trove of Covey songs. All the ballads and mountain airs they carried down from their families, picked up during their travels, or even wrote themselves. Some I know well, having sung them in captivity after the assassination of Coin. Others I've forgotten until just now. Folk songs and toe-tappers and ditties, and some just instrumental. Old favorites such as "Crawling to You," "Tomorrow Will Be Kinder," "Wild Horses," and "Kingdom Come" snag my interest for a bit, but when Maude Ivory starts up with "Oh my Darling, Clementine," I tune out and search for Snow, lest that one get stuck in my head again.

I probably scan the audience for his recognizable blond curls for two whole minutes before I realize I'm an idiot. New Peacekeepers get their heads shaved. I won't be able to find him that way. I might be able to detect his snake-like eyes if all heads weren't facing the Covey. Maude Ivory makes a joke about how hot it's been lately and tells the audience they're going to throw in some fall and winter songs to make everyone feel a lot cooler, and they start singing "The Cremation of Sam McGee." Resigned, I'm about to give up and just listen to the music, when one Peacekeeper suddenly sticks out to me. The one at the very back, at the end of the row, holding a box in his arms. I'm squinting at him – the height is right, the color of the sparse amount of hair – but it's only when he stands even straighter and I see that Lucy Gray is the only one left on the stage that I know it has to be Snow.

She sits on a stool with her guitar and gently pats the pocket of her dress, something I rewind a couple of times because I think I'm seeing things. It's too soft and slow to be a nervous tic. My quiet ventures with Gale in the woods tell me it's got to be some sort of gesture, or a signal.

And then, strumming a steady yet dreamy melody, she starts to sing a song I've never heard before.

"Everyone's born as clean as a whistle
As fresh as a daisy
And not a bit crazy.
Staying that way's a hard row for hoeing
As rough as a briar,
Like walking through fire.

This world, it's dark,
And this world, it's scary.
I've taken some hits, so
No wonder I'm wary.
It's why I
Need you
You're pure as the driven snow…"

I have to pause the footage just to give myself a moment, but the surrealness of the situation soaks in anyway. My grandmother's cousin wrote Snow a love song.

The more I listen to the lyrics, the more indignant I get. Coriolanus Snow is not pure. "This world goes blind when children are dying"? Children would continue to die horribly because this Snow was not pure. And then she sings about him seeing the ideal her, and even worse – about how she trusts him.

My heart clenches in dismay, knowing what lies ahead for her. I've said it before and I'll say it again – trusting people wholeheartedly is a mistake. That's the kind of thing that can get you blindsided… even killed. I want to believe Lucy Gray was clever enough to see the light before it was too late, but knowing this is the night my grandmother went to bed and never saw her again... the odds don't seem in her favor.

"You asked for a reason, I've got three and twenty, for why I trust you. You're pure as the driven snow."

Twenty-three tributes. She saved his life in that arena, so he did the same in the Games. And she trusted him because of it. But all I can think of is that his life debt has already been paid.

After her love song ends and is met with applause, the other Covey members run onstage and Lucy Gray disappears behind the blanket curtain they've set up. While my grandmother starts singing "Keep on the Sunny Side," I spot Snow leaving too, clutching his box. The timing is too close for it to be a coincidence. They're meeting up somewhere. I hate that I can't know what they're talking about. Instead, I listen as the Covey joyously praises sunshine for a couple of minutes.

Finally, Snow sneaks back in without the box during the last chorus, the sun-praising song ends, and they transition to a more a capella number. CC and Tam Amber start it off with a low and solemn but sweet sort of chant, and Barb Azure and Maude Ivory chime in, blending beautifully with high notes that are perfect for Maude Ivory's voice. I've heard this kind of thing before, sung under my grandmother's breath sometimes or by my father when we were in the woods. The words are unintelligible, I think they're just syllables and vocalizations, so I never picked it up myself. I asked my father what they meant once and he said he didn't know, only that his mother and her cousin Barb told him it was from another time. But now I hear the beauty in it. It was meant to be sung as a group, all of them coming together and building their harmonies into something magnificent.

Lucy Gray emerges, placing a hand on Tam Amber's shoulder – all five of them joined in this way – as she contributes her own vocals to the melody, and a shiver spreads through my skin, tingling with gooseflesh, as I realize why this is so familiar.

Mockingjays. They sound like the mockingjays in the trees. Their arms are the branches, their syllables the sounds. The imperfect but euphonious imitation of human speech, as a collective, a flock. A covey.

Hidden in the back, the magic is clearly lost on Snow. He doesn't look like he's paying one bit of attention to it.

The song ends with a flourish, accompanied by applause. The Covey members are going to fetch their instruments when Lucy Gray gestures, says something, and sits down on the stool again. "I almost forgot. I promised to sing this for one of you," she says, and there it is again. The pocket pat. I quickly find Snow in the crowd, who straightens up like he's noticed it too and is alert once more.

Then, strumming her guitar, she begins to sing. And I know this song. The arrangement is different, sounds bolder set to a string instrument, but I know it.

It's The Hanging Tree.

"Are you, are you,
Coming to the tree
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three?
Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

The hanging. The coal mine explosion that killed three people. That happened this year, the year of her Games. She wrote it. And now she's singing to him. A song about lovers meeting in secret, about telling the other to run so they'd both be free.

And it hits me – they're going to run away together. Or she's planning to. She's telling him where to meet her – at the old hanging tree.

I try to make sense of it in my head. Of course she wants to run away. She's been through the Games and probably seen the hangings and now her ex-lover and the girl he left her for are dead and the mayor blames her. And Snow... well, he was a Peacekeeper at the time. That's a definite step down in life, at least for him. It's kind of like the Night's Watch in that you're not allowed to marry or have children. The term of servitude ends after twenty years instead of at death, but still, losing a chance at a legacy for that long must not have appealed to Snow.

Except he only served for little over a month, and by September, he had found his path to glory again. So if they did run north into the woods together, and only one of them returned… that can mean one of two things.

One, he changed his mind, unable to bear the thought of roughing it in the wilderness if there was any shred of hope to go back to the Capitol, and she went on without him. Explaining why there was never a body to be found.

Or two, he betrayed her, and her corpse is lying at the bottom of the lake.

Part of me hopes that the former is true, that she did wind up somewhere north and found a life of freedom and a purer love. Maybe with grandchildren or even great-grandchildren by now, because why should Snow be the one to have that and not her?

But another part knows, deep down… something terrible happened in the forests of District 12.

As soon as Lucy Gray wraps up the song, the Covey come back onstage with their instruments to a round of applause. She nods to them, and they look appeased as she starts to pick out a different tune on her guitar. With CC coming in next playing a recognizable note on his fiddle, the Covey follows up with their version of the river song. It seems I was right all along – this is the first time I've heard it played by an entire band, and if I thought my parents singing it sounded good, the Covey musicians take it to a whole new level. Barb sings solo initially, but the others come in at just the right times. The way all five come together for the line, "Dive down deep into her sound, but not too far or you'll be drowned" is hauntingly beautiful and sets off not just gooseflesh, but pins and needles throughout my body.

As CC plays a fiddle solo for the part where my father used to whistle, I think of Shireen, who would get a kick out of this version. And all of Lucy Gray's songs, for that matter. If only I could play this footage for her, I know she would be mesmerized.

They perform a few more songs, before ending on "The Parting Glass," an old song that, along with Lucy Gray's bittersweet smiles to her fellow Covey members, only furthers my suspicions that my theory is correct.

"Of all the comrades that e'er I had
They're sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e'er I had
Would wish me one more day to stay…

But since it fell into my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and softly call
Goodnight and joy be  with  you all."

Goodnight, and joy be with you all… I look at Maude Ivory, smiling back at Lucy Gray. Blissfully unaware that it's not the audience she's singing it to, but the Covey on that stage.

When the song ends, once the clapping and whistling have faded enough, Lucy Gray says that thing about going to bed with the birds, and she calls for a final "Happy Birthday" chorus to Commander Hoff before she and the Covey take their final bows. Never to play together again. I glare untrustingly at Snow as he and another Peacekeeper help their drunken friend out of the gymnasium. What kind of lies did he feed her that, mere hours after this footage, she would willingly go into the woods alone with him? That she would trust him like this? Didn't she know that, even back then, he was probably a murderer already? And still she thought him pure. Pure as the driven snow.

Maybe she did know, and trusted him anyway, because she had killed people too. She had killed, and survived, in the arena. Thanks to him.

But because of that, he had paid her back his life debt. They were even; he owed her nothing now. The only thing left was his love, but how true was that to him? Not enough to endure those woods with her, that much is clear.

Maybe knowing the truth is the reason she never left those woods…

The epiphany floods me with a renewed surge of fury. Makes me wish I could use Beetee's portal to go back in time, back to the arena bombing, so I can stop Lucy Gray from saving Snow if he's only going to end up betraying her. But then, if he died in that arena, there's no telling if she would've made it back to District 12 alive. Instead, it would be better to go to the woods that day and kill Snow then. Mystery solved, Lucy Gray lives, and Snow never becomes president.

The daydream, honeyed with justice, loses its flavor after a few hours. Gale contacts me that evening and I get an answer out of him as to what happened yesterday. Some woman, after interrogating him about who he was talking to, said she'd heard him mention Jon Snow and asked him if he was back at Castle Black. Gale told her he was, but that he'd be leaving again in a few days. She seemed disappointed. Gale jokingly asks me if Jon has another former girlfriend out there. I get mad and almost cut him off but decide to tell him what I've learned about Lucy Gray, along with my speculations and imaginary vengeance plan. Quietly, of course. I'm aware the privacy of my room has its limits, and even in a what-if situation, conspiring to assassinate a younger Snow feels weird on my tongue.

I thought Gale might be the best one to understand this wistful feeling of hypothetical justice, but no, he decides to do what he does best in Westeros – rain on my parade.

"Remember what I said about interfering with things?" he says. "If Lucy Gray lives and Snow dies, maybe she gets incriminated for another murder and you've doomed her anyway. Yeah, Snow would never become president, but someone else would. Maybe you change everything, maybe you change nothing. Maybe you change things for your grandmother so that you're never even born." He pauses, as if unsure, then presses further. "Who would end the Hunger Games then?"

His point is so annoying that I do cut off the connection then, but try as I might, I can't shake it from my head. What would killing a mere Peacekeeper do except get Lucy Gray and the rest of District 12 in trouble? According to my mother, one already got executed for treason that summer. Another one's death would turn a few heads. And while Ravenstill was in power, there was no Victor's Village, there were no monetary winnings, and the children were starved and sick by the time they entered the arena. It's possible that improved treatment of tributes and victors wouldn't exist without Snow. Obviously because he wanted the Capitol to appear reasonable and merciful, and it doesn't change the devastation he caused, but how well would I have fared in my first arena if I'd been stuck in a cage in the zoo with no food for days?

Actually, for that part, I decide I owe Lucy Gray my life. Her and that Plinth guy handing out sandwiches. Or at least, I'll silently thank them rather than Snow for the lamb stew with plums. But these thoughts still plague me well into the ninth and tenth day, get me tossing and turning at night as I wonder what happened in the woods with Lucy Gray and what would've happened if Snow was never president. I need the sleep because we're definitely leaving for Hardhome soon, so on the tenth night, I make hot chocolate and bring a cup and a flagon of it into my room to settle my nerves.

While it cools, I contact Beetee for an update on the drone. He's still exploring way out north. He was blown away by the Frostfangs, but they got a little hard to navigate and made it difficult for him to recall the drone, so he started going northeast a day or two ago. He's seen a few groups moving but wasn't certain if they were living or dead. Now he's exploring the northern stretch of the Haunted Forest. I ever-so-subtly suggest that he start heading back south to make sure he hasn't missed anything.

"Try to remember the initial objective of this whole drone project," I tell him, as nicely as possible considering the state I'm in. I appreciate that he's getting to fly over a whole new world, but he sounds like he's getting pretty far away. I'd prefer it if he comes back around to Hardhome before I get there myself.

He agrees, saying he probably won't be out there for much longer. Hopefully "much longer" only means a couple of days. When I say this to him, his reply is "It should be." Which isn't totally reassuring, but I let it slide. As an afterthought, I tell him what my mother said about a Peacekeeper getting executed in 12 for treason, and he agrees to look into it because we both think it's strange this happened during the same exact summer as everything else.

We end the connection, and I turn off my devices for the night, putting them away in the parachute shell under my bed. Then I reach for the cup of hot chocolate, warming my hands as I take a long, careful sip.

I almost choke at the sound of a sudden knock on the door. It's not Jon's knock, so I'm wary as I put the cup down on the nightstand next to the flagon. Who else would come by at this hour?

Getting up from my bed, I cross slowly to the front of the room and crack open the door to peek outside, before opening it all the way as I lower my gaze to take in the person standing there. My lips part in surprise as his name briefly gets stuck in my throat.

Because my visitor is the last Night's Watch brother I would've expected, eyebrows drawn together and shoulders squared, with a look of troubled determination on his young face.

"Olly?" I say.

Chapter Text

Olly furrows his forehead harder, mouth twitching as his eyes dart briefly around before focusing back on me, like he's not sure if he should ask to be invited inside. Slightly confused, and still uncertain myself, I push the door open a little more and take a step back, silently extending the invitation for him. He hesitates at first, but he must realize he's letting the cold in, because he quickly recovers and hastens through the threshold.

"I know you're not a wildling," he says right off the bat, the words coming out in a rush as I'm closing the door behind him. Astonished, I whirl around, using my back to shut it the rest of the way. He's turned to face me as well. His features continue to tremble with a nervous energy, but his eyes have steadied and grown bright with resolve. "You're not from here. You don't know what they're like. What they've done."

I blink at him, still processing the "not a wildling" part. Took you long enough, I think to myself. But then I hear what else he's saying. "I know what people have told me," I counter, walking past him to my nightstand. "I saw the fire. The battle at the Wall. Fifty Night's Watch men were killed, I know they're dangerous…"

"Then why are you going to Hardhome?" Olly demands, as I'm reaching for my cup. Hesitating, I turn my head again. His fists are balled and shaking at his sides. "Jon – he listens to you. You could talk him out of it. Convince him not to go."

"Olly—" I start to say.

"They're not worth saving!" he bursts out.

I'm taken aback, not only at the desperation in his voice – he must be desperate if he would come to me for help – but at what immediately springs to mind when he says it. A vision of Snow, being rescued from the rubble by Lucy Gray. I would have tried to stop her too. And here is where the disconcerting nighttime thoughts come creeping back into my head. Where eighteen-year-old Snow dies, and another enemy rises to power. Where the Hunger Games not only continue, but get worse…

I grab my cup for solace, letting my fingers soak in its heat once more. I'm about to take a drink when I consider Olly's tremulous form. "Do you want the rest of this?" I ask, holding it out to him. "It's still warm."

He looks confounded and a little annoyed by the subject change, then casts a suspicious glance at the creamy brown contents. "What's in it?" he asks.

"It's hot chocolate, not poison," I say, rolling my eyes.

"You drink it, then," says Olly.

"I have been—" I stop, deciding it's not worth it, and toss back the remnants of the drink in a few gulps. It's still rather hot, so I have to breathe out and fan my mouth a bit. "Whew, should have blown on it first," I mutter. Then I pour another half-cup from the flagon and offer it to him again.

This time he takes it, with a flicker of amusement on his face at my expense. Then the humor of my chocolate-induced dragon breaths loses its effect on him. He sips tentatively, visibly gains interest, and drinks some more. But after a moment, he lowers the cup from his lips as his eyes turn distant and dark.

"Did he tell you what they did to my village?" he asks quietly, listless but with the undertones of raw anger. "They burned it to the ground. They shot an arrow through my father's head, butchered my mum, slaughtered everyone in their path." His voice, steadily rising, almost nears a shout here. "Even told me they were going to eat them—"

"Yeah, and what are they going to do to you when they're dead?" I say, maybe too sharply going by the look he gives me. "I don't know what the wildlings are like? You don't know the white walkers. You haven't been out there, you haven't seen death and decay bearing down on you, haven't heard their screams…"

I stop myself, remembering I'm talking to a kid who's probably disturbed enough already. A pang of guilt reverberates in my chest, and I sigh.

"Look, you have every reason to not want to help them," I say. "I know what it's like to watch people you love die before your eyes. But if you leave all those wildlings to the white walkers, you're adding that many soldiers to their army." I meet his gaze firmly. "And then you haven't gotten rid of them, you've just made them harder to kill."

Frowning, he tries to argue. "The Wall will stop them—"

"Will it?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "With fifty men?" Olly nurses his hot chocolate and looks doubtful, so I press on. "I don't know about you, Olly, but I'd rather have them on our side instead of the dead's. If we don't want them to be allies with the white walkers, we need to make them ours."

Olly sinks onto the edge of my bed, clutching his cup. "How can we trust them?" he asks.

"It's not about trust, it's about staying alive," I say, and I can't believe Haymitch's words are coming out of my mouth. If Olly is anything like I was back then, he probably still isn't convinced, so I try to appeal to him my way. "You understand the concept of a life debt, right? We get them to the other side of the Wall, we're saving their lives. They'll owe us."

"What if that means nothing to them?" he insists. "What if we let them through and they cut our throats while we sleep?"

"Then they'll be facing the dead alone," I tell him. "I'm not saying there aren't traitors out there. I'm saying they need us as much as we need them."

"That's easy for you to say," he says crossly. "They didn't kill anyone you knew."

Damn. He has me there. I huff some of the hair out of my eyes. "Maybe not," I agree. "And hey, maybe I'm being a hypocrite. One of the people who had a hand in my sister's death is dead now. The one who deliberately put her in harm's way? Yeah, I put an arrow through her heart." Olly glances up from his drink in shock. Satisfied at having seized his attention, I continue, "But the other two are still alive, and since then, they've found ways to make it up to me. One gave me supplies and safe passage to Westeros. The other agreed to go with King Stannis and protect Shireen."

Olly's mouth falls open. "The one you were arguing with – the hunter with the crossbow?" he says in disbelief, looking at me like I'm crazy. "You knew he helped kill your sister, and you sent him off with the princess?"

"I said he had a hand in her death," I repeat impatiently. "And that's my point, he knows what he owes me. He won't fail me again. He promised me."

Olly wrinkles his nose, scowling as he takes another sip of hot chocolate. Deep down, I can't blame him for being dubious. My theories on what happened between Snow and Lucy Gray post-Games have left me feeling a bit cynical towards trust as well. Sighing, I lean against the wall.

"Look, sometimes, you have to align yourself with questionable people," I say, my thoughts flitting between Lucy Gray and Snow and Coin and Gale. "Even if you can't stand them, or they've wronged you and the ones you loved. Because there's something more important that unites you. And that means you might have to save their life, or listen to their advice, or say yes to things that under normal circumstances, you'd never agree to." Like a symbolic Hunger Games, I think to myself. "It all comes down to making the choice that's best for everyone. The choice that ensures survival."

He doesn't look up, but his brow furrows harder in thought, as if something I said has resonated with him.

I latch on to that. "Every living person is going to be useful, Olly, even the wildlings," I say. "But if they're killing us and we're killing them, who wins in the end? Who benefits the most from our deaths? Sn—"

Then I have to clamp my mouth shut because the name Snow almost escaped my lips. Olly glances at me out of the corner of his eye. Quickly, I compose myself and find a way to recover from it.

"Sometimes I need the reminder too," I admit. "Back in Panem. When I was blind to everyone else but the people I cared about. When I wanted to just keep fighting the other districts like we'd done for years, as long as it meant protecting my own. But then I told myself the same thing my mentor told me." Though he's still avoiding my eyes, I look at him meaningfully, hoping the words will reach him in the same way. "'Just remember who the real enemy is.'"

I get a reaction, but not the one I'm aiming for. His head snaps up and he flicks his gaze to me, blue eyes widening as if I've slapped him. After a few seconds of staredown as he's searching my face, his expression dims and his eyes grow distant again. He sets the cup on the nightstand and gets up from the bed.

"Thank you for the chocolate," he says. "Goodnight, milady." And he's out the door.

"Goodnight...?" I say wryly, then shake my head and inspect the cup. He's drained it, so at least I'm not completely useless to him.

I help myself to what's left in the flagon and sit down on the mattress, releasing a slow breath. His response just now has bowled me over, but on second thought, I guess I was bristly and defensive too when Haymitch first said those words to me. Doesn't mean it didn't eventually make the impact he wanted. In the end, I understood. The enemy wasn't any of the tributes, but the one who trapped us in that arena together. The one who wanted all of us dead, along with everyone we held dear.

Olly's just a kid, so maybe he'll get it eventually. Know where to turn his weapon when the time comes. He's already surprised me once tonight. Maybe there's hope for him yet.

Was I really that stubborn, though? I take a long swig of my drink, suddenly feeling a great deal of sympathy for Haymitch.

Since the twelfth day after the Baratheons' departure is the morning we leave for Hardhome, most of the eleventh is spent making final preparations. While Beetee keeps doing some sleuthing on the treasonous Peacekeeper thing, he connects me to Haymitch, a conversation I think is long overdue considering the recent release of the 10th Games. There's too much to say, so I won't be able to risk sneaking it in while I'm en route to Hardhome, and it can't wait another few weeks for my return.

As soon as we're connected, Haymitch gets in his jab about me already talking to Greasy Sae a week before, and I defensively point out that she contacted me. Then we both laugh, because we know we're not fooling each other.

"Good to hear from you, sweetheart," he says, and the warmth in his voice melts all thoughts of Snow from my mind. "Where are you?"

"Westeros," I say, eyeing the creepy face on the weirwood tree. "Somewhere up north."

Haymitch chuckles. "Westeros, in the north," he echoes. "Well, can't say I blame you. Getting away from the current sweltering hell we call Twelve. It's probably a whole lot cooler than it is down here."

"Oh, you have no idea," I say with a snort.

We catch up on a few things. He repeats the joke about the geese being less stressed with Buttercup not lurking around, tells me he's borrowed half my library because Effie wanted something to read while she was visiting and now she's more interested in the books than in him. Says all of District 12 has been abuzz with talk of Lucy Gray since the reveal of the 10th Games. Thanks to Beetee, they also got to see Commander Hoff's birthday footage, and now Posy's going around singing "Oh My Darling, Clementine" at the top of her lungs. That and multiple other songs have gotten stuck in his head ever since.

Victor to victor, we discuss Lucy Gray and her Games. After venting my own mad theories, I ask him about The Hanging Tree clue and what he thinks happened to her.

Haymitch draws out a contemplative sound before answering. "You're not going to like this, but maybe she killed herself."

"What?" I blurt out, making Ghost raise his head sharply. A cold, sinking feeling takes hold in my chest. "No, she wouldn't do that."

"You tried to," Haymitch retorts, which makes me fall silent. He softens his tone. "Your mother was the one who suggested it. It's right there in the first song. 'Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping.' 'Take it 'cause I'd give it free, it won't hurt'?"

"It's just a song," I argue, albeit feebly. That's what I said to Stannis about The Hanging Tree, and he didn't buy it for a second. "And Maude Ivory must've been like a little sister to her. She wouldn't abandon her like that."

"She was a victor, Katniss," Haymitch reminds me. "She went through a lot, before and after. One of her lovers was dead, and assuming your theory is correct, the other betrayed her. If something did happen out there, if she felt like there was a threat to her life and there was no other way, it seems to me like she'd rather give it free… that is, take her life for herself, on her own terms. Like you almost did."

"But I didn't," I point out.

"Only because Finnick intervened," Haymitch replies. "Probably still has the scar on his hand from where you bit him."

I fume silently. I could easily point out to him that I could've tried again when I was in solitary, that I actively planned it, and what did I do instead? I began to sing.

Yes, I know the pain of dead lovers and betrayal. I also know the trauma that stems from the Games. So does Haymitch. And for that matter, so does my mother. The Games, the mines, and the war took nearly everything from her. A best friend, a husband, a daughter, almost two of them. And she went numb, worse than I did, but she never took her life. And neither did Haymitch. And neither did I.

"I just… don't think that's the answer," I say slowly, frustrated with him and with myself. "We just come right back to the issue of never finding a body."

"So what is the answer?" Haymitch says impatiently. "Did he kill her? Did she get away?"

"I don't know!" I snap, and Ghost looks at me warily. "Look, sorry, I—"

"Something else bothering you, sweetheart?" he says knowingly. "You sound very protective about a girl who vanished sixty-six years ago."

I sink to the ground, sullen, stroking Ghost when he comes to me. "She was my family," I reply. "Our victor."

Haymitch makes another noise of acknowledgement. "Don't let it take hold of you, Katniss," he says. "Greasy Sae said you were pretty invested in this. Your mother did too. Said you went on for over an hour about the Games, and the love story... Granted, I'm impressed you put it all together, but you're never going to know what happened in those woods, so… let it go."

I groan petulantly, leaning my head back against the bark of the weirwood tree. He probably suspects I'm thinking of Prim and Peeta. That I need an outlet to channel all my protective impulses, my restless fears and energy and persistent need to problem-solve. That I'm just making a desperate attempt to fill the hole they left in my heart. And he's right, but I can't even begin to tell him that I already filled it once. And the hole that I'm awkwardly trying to seal with Lucy Gray is now princess-shaped.

"I mean it," he insists. "Lucy Gray's story is public now. Snow is dead, so even if he did kill her, justice is served. You're just breathing new life into him, obsessing over this and letting him get into your head like that. When you should be enjoying your 'vacation.'"

A prolonged, steady breath escapes me, drawing the tension out of my head. "You think I'm going mad?" I ask.

"Oh, you're already there," he answers, turning my grimace into a grin. "Have been for a while. Though, from what your mother tells me, a little madness runs in the family."

"Grandma Rosemary, she means," I say with a little scoff of laughter. She used to fret so much over her mother's behavior during her headaches, which seemed unfair. I'd be agitated too if mine were that bad.

"Yes, apparently this whole Lucy Gray mystery is reminding her of how alike you two are," says Haymitch.

Now I'm baffled. "In appearance, maybe," I say. My father's genes are strong in me, dark hair and gray eyes and olive skin, but if I had my mother's nose, I'd be Rosemary in the face. When she put her own dark hair in a braid, it was uncanny. In terms of skills, though, Prim was her healing twin, not me.

But Haymitch isn't deterred. "No, in spirit, too," he says. "Your grandma had her own family mystery to solve, you know. The case of the missing birth parents. When she was young, all her dreams and fairytale books had her convinced she was a long-lost princess, a witch, a changeling, a mermaid… Unlike you, she didn't have good, solid footage to obsess over, but obsess she did. And when it didn't pan out, and she was just another name to go in the reaping bowl, she got angry. Angry at the Games, angry at both sets of parents… the birth parents for abandoning her in the woods, and the Ulbergs for forbidding her to enter them. She got rebellious in her teen years, but not quite to your level. The one time she did sneak into those woods, she got knocked up, so obviously, never again."

I make a face, because I really did not need to know that, or hear Haymitch say "knocked up." But then a thought occurs to me. "When she died… they found her body by the fence," I say quietly.

"Your mother mentioned that. Thinks in her confusion she was trying to go in," he admits. "It consumed her entire life, Katniss. Not knowing. Trying to piece it together but only having mementos and word of mouth to go by. Healing gave her something else to focus on, and being with loved ones helped. Your grandfather kept her grounded, protected her from rumors that she was a little—" I presume he's twirling his finger near his head. "And music made her happy too. Maysilee's canary, mockingjays, Gary and Maude Ivory. But your mother said she always got worse after losing people."

I'm silent for a moment. "Why didn't I know about this?" I ask. It feels like her "oh, my best friend Maysilee died in the Quarter Quell" revelation all over again.

"Didn't want to upset you," he replies. "She knew you two were close. And your grandma wasn't supposed to talk about it with you because your mother wanted her to pay attention to the family she actually had."

How ironic, I think to myself. But she's right. We were close. She read stories to me, I sang Covey songs to her. And I am upset that nobody ever told me this side of her, this side that is me. Rebellious and restless and stubborn to a fault, raised by the parents who volunteered. Is it possible that my fire came from my mother's side all along?

Hard to believe, as cold as she went when my father died. But maybe as down-to-earth as he was, he was the coal that she needed to keep burning. I guess in our family you either find something else to kindle your flame or you go out.

"I have gone too far with this, haven't I?" I say at last, and once the words pass my lips, I know it's the truth.

"Afraid so, sweetheart. As far as you can with it," Haymitch says. "Good job chasing Lucy Gray's siren song, but the woods are a dead end for you. Just as they were for your grandmother. The only ones who know what happened that day are Lucy and Snow. Now, I don't know about the girl, she could be alive to this day or she could be a ghost like the poem, but we know one thing for sure. Snow is good and gone. Don't bring him back." I hear him chug a drink in the background. "Do yourself a favor. Let her fate be a mystery, and let the bastard die."

I flinch at first, at the last part, but sigh in resignation. I've never been good at following orders, but in this case, it's my sanity at stake here. "Fine," I say.

"Yeah?" Haymitch says, surprised. I suspect he didn't think it would be that easy. "You got anything in Westeros to keep your mind off things? Any friends yet, dare I ask?"

"Friends, yeah," I say, annoyed with myself. Sam and Gilly should be at the front of my mind instead of Snow when I'm about to go a month without seeing them. "And a mission I'll be going on tomorrow."

"Good," says Haymitch. "Because the way you were getting about Snow, I almost didn't want to tell you the other detail you missed in the Games."

"What other detail?" I say immediately.

Haymitch snorts at me. "That was a test," he says. "You failed."

But when I groan in aggravation, he tells me. Thanks to Paylor, Plutarch, and Beetee, the intruders from the first night of the Games have been identified. One was Sejanus Plinth, the sandwich guy from the zoo; the other who joined him was Snow. Tigris confirmed that he had been sent in to retrieve his friend, and the bludgeoned tribute was his doing.

"Snow, with friends," I scoff, remembering Finnick's Capitol history lesson. "Snow killed all his friends. I bet—"

"Careful," Haymitch warns.

I end the connection with Haymitch on a promise that I'll stop trying to wake the dead. Then I switch to Beetee, who promptly lets me know he has some information for me.

"I was able to find out that the Peacekeeper hanged for treason was none other than Snow's classmate, Sejanus Plinth," Beetee says, making me grimace. "We recently discovered that the two of them broke into the arena on the first night. Perhaps Haymitch already told you this. Sejanus was sent to Twelve as a Peacekeeper that summer, same as Snow, and was caught on a jabberjay recording confessing to a rebel plot." He pauses for effect, then continues, "Tigris said they were friends, but it seems too perfect to be a coincidence. If you'd like, I could find out more—"

"Beetee!" I say, stopping him. "Thanks, but no thanks. You've done enough. You can go back to your drone."

"All right. If you're sure." I can almost see him lifting his eyebrows doubtfully above his glasses.

"I'm sure," I say adamantly. "No more footage. No more Games. No more Peacekeepers." Closing my eyes, I rest my head against the weirwood tree again and absently stroke Ghost's fur. "From now on, the only Snow I care about is—"

I cut myself off there, eyes snapping open again as I press my lips together in embarrassment.

"Is who?" Beetee says, amused.

Flustered, I taste denial on the tip of my tongue, a defensive retort that refuses to pass my lips. "You know who," I mutter, and click off.

I ride through the trees, letting the wind whip at my cheeks until they're rosy from the cold, and dismount at the lake. Kneeling at the edge, I gaze down at my reflection in the beautiful green water. When my first thought is that it looks like Lucy Gray, I lash out and shatter it into ripples. Then I splash some ice-cold water on my face.

After the water steadies, I see me again. Satisfied, I sink into the snow with a sigh and run my fingers through Ghost's soft white fur as he drinks from the lake.

"There's only one Snow to me now," I confide in him. "Only one that matters."

Ghost raises his head, looks at me appraisingly, and resumes drinking.

On the twelfth day after the Baratheons' departure, I rise early and pull my stuff together. What's left to pull together, anyway. Sam and Gilly agreed to hold on to some of my belongings for safekeeping, so we spent a good portion of yesterday making those arrangements. As Sam fully understands, I don't want anyone breaking into my room while I'm gone and messing with anything or discovering things they shouldn't. Most of the men staying are the ones who dislike Jon, so I don't feel comfortable leaving anything unguarded.

Granted, that includes Sam and Gilly, but at least they'll have Ghost. I also left them the spare earpieces Beetee gave me and demonstrated how to use them. I know we won't be able to do much from far away, but at least this lets them get hold of us if they need to. Warn us, maybe, if there's a mutiny like the one at Craster's Keep.

The parachute container with the pearl and the medallion stays with them. My handheld device, changes of clothes, other things I dug out of my pack to make room. The dragonglass game bag with most of its contents. And Buttercup, of course.

My specialty arrows and shadowskin are coming with me, though. Too valuable, too useful, too risky to leave behind. I don't want to come back to Castle Black and see someone's burnt down a tower or blown a hole in the dining hall while Sam and Gilly were busy tending to Maester Aemon.

A pang of sadness shoots through me at the thought of him. Yesterday, upon returning through the gate, I had resolved to do two productive things that day – spend whatever time I could with Sam, Gilly, Little Sam, and Maester Aemon, and contact Gale to discuss introducing Shireen to our communication devices. With the last day arrangements, kitchen duties, and the library, I'd gotten time with Sam and Gilly and the baby, but Maester Aemon was having one of his bad days and needed rest. I still ran my idea past Gale, but said I'd give him time to talk to her about it the next day since my mind was too preoccupied.

After changing into my Mockingjay suit and putting my hair in a braid, I bundle myself in my shadowskin, which Gilly has made into a makeshift cloak. Leaving my stuff at the door for now, I swiftly cross the walkway and make my way towards the maester's quarters.

Sam and Gilly are already there. Sam's just been up to feed the ravens, and Gilly is at Maester Aemon's bedside with Little Sam in her arms. Outside the maester's bedroom, Sam quietly confirms what's on my mind.

"He's still a bit delirious, but I'm sure he can manage a goodbye," he says. "Let's just say, it's good you have time to see him before you leave."

"You don't think he has a month left in him?" I ask.

Sam shakes his head softly, lowers his voice. "I don't think he has a week."

I close my eyes for a moment, enduring the wave of dull pain this brings. I hope that this is not true, that I'll come back and find him in the library or the rookery. Or at least smiling and upright in his bed, patiently awaiting another song. I've only known him a month, but Aemon has already touched the part of me that misses having grandparents. Though at his age, he'd be closer to a great-grandparent.

"Well, then I guess it's time to say goodbye to quite possibly the only dragon I'll ever meet," I say, trying to be lighthearted. "Or at least the oldest."

Sam manages a smile. "So there really aren't any Targaryens in Panem?" he says. "No Baratheons, Tarlys, Starks?"

"No Targaryens, no Baratheons or Tarlys, some Starks," I correct. Beetee and I were curious about this a while back, so he consulted recent population maps of Panem. Unsurprisingly, Stark was the only name that got any results, several families scattered along districts 9, 3, 6, and parts of 2 and 8. Barely any left in 12, but then again, who is? "Not the same ones, obviously, but like their Westerosi counterparts, most of them are up north."

He nods thoughtfully. "And you say you've never had dragons."

"We have salamanders," I say, raising my eyebrows.

He actually laughs. "Salamanders?"

"Lots of them in Twelve. Rare as rocks," I reply with a shrug. "All the legends say that they're born in fire, live in it, not only survive the flames but have the power to put them out."

It's only a myth of course. What really happens is, they hibernate in rotting logs, so when you use them for a fire, the salamanders come scurrying out from their hiding place. I learned that the hard way, the winter that Gale and I first became friends. The fence's power had been turned on and we were stuck on the other side of it after dark, so he started a fire to keep us warm. Next thing I knew, this little creature had crawled on top of the flaming log and I was screaming, kicking snow and dirt at the fire to extinguish it. Gale spent the next five minutes roaring with laughter.

If that's how I react to a tiny salamander on a fire log, I can't imagine how I'd fare coming face-to-face with a full-grown dragon. Hard to believe there's a woman out there with three.

"None of it's true," I say, watching Sam's intrigued expression. "It's just funny that in any universe, people like to associate lizards with fire."

"I think salamanders are actually amphibians," Sam says nicely.

"Fine, amphibians. They don't breathe fire, though," I say, and think about it as I follow him into the room. "Unless that's why they call them The Smokies..."

"The Smokies?" Aemon croaks from his bed.

I come up to the side across from Gilly and rest my hand over his. "It's nothing, Maester Aemon," I say. "Just a mountain range in my district."

"Katniss will be leaving for Hardhome soon," Sam tells him. "She's come to say goodbye."

From the look of understanding on his face, Aemon knows what kind of goodbye this will turn out to be. He smiles gently as, sitting down, I say mine in barely over a whisper. His wrinkled hand slides free from mine and lifts from the bed, and I let him trace my features. My brow, my cheek, the shape of my nose. He pauses there, and his brow furrows for a moment, before dropping his hand as the smile returns to his face.

"Farewell, Katniss Everdeen," he says in a shaky rasp. "There's not been a songbird like you… since the days of… Lucy Snow."

My own smile drops from my lips. The name is ringing in my ear like the piercing chime of a parachute. I look over at Sam, begging for an answer since he usually has them all.

"Lucy Snow…?" I ask, my voice tight with confusion and restrained panic.

The only name that is supposed to be attached to Snow right now is Jon, and Jon is just Jon, and Aemon is possibly out of it since he's mumbling about Targaryens, saying, "…though Rhaegar would be more of a songdragon…" So I don't know what to make of any of this.

Sam's eyes light up the way they do when he's about to share his wealth of knowledge. "I think he means Lucy Flowers," he says in a bright, reassuring voice, though he has no idea what has spooked me. Sure enough, Aemon makes a soft "ah" sound like he's remembering. "She was a traveling singer from back in the days of my great-grandparents. Flowers is the name given to bastards in the Reach. Grandmother Crane said she used to sing the most at Brightwater Keep and Honeyholt." To Aemon, he adds as if struck by epiphany, "You must have heard her when you were at the Citadel!"

"She wasn't a bastard, Samwell. She just quite liked the name," Aemon says dreamily. "She sang in the North for well over a year. When I first met her, she was still called Lucy Snow. And then she tried Lucy Rivers, Lucy Stone, Lucy Storm, Lucy Flowers…" He gives a merry laugh. "She changed her name… like a Braavosi changes faces…"

I turn to Sam, concerned. "Is he delirious again?"

"Oh, no. That part is true," Sam says nonchalantly. "There are people in Braavos who are known as the Faceless Men."

All right. So Aemon is fully coherent. His mind is intact, while my own is racing. There are a thousand thoughts in my head and not one of them is making any sense. Finally, I ask, "How long ago was this?"

Sam wrinkles his forehead, giving it some thought. "Seventy, eighty years ago?" he guesses.

Just like that, the bubble of tension building up in my chest starts to deflate.

"Huh," I say softly.

"What is it?" Gilly asks.

I shake my head. "Nothing, I…" I pause to laugh at myself, "I just thought I'd solved a sixty-six-year-old mystery."

It's a weird feeling, like a final straw. Snow's poison being drawn out of me slowly. There were no portals back then, the timing didn't match up, and still I was about ready to believe it. Another test I failed as soon as I heard the name Snow. It's a common bastard name in the North – though this Lucy is not a bastard – and maybe Lucy is a common girl's name here too. But there's something about it that doesn't feel quite right.

And yet, it doesn't matter. I will walk out of this room. I will ride to Hardhome. I will keep singing Lucy Gray's songs.

But I will let the truth die with Aemon Targaryen.

I look at him in relief, my shoulders sagging as a smile stretches across my lips. He's singing softly to himself, happy, as if reveling in a memory.

"I loved a maid as bright as spring, with blossoms in her hair…"

"Isn't it 'as green as spring' and 'sunrise in her hair'?" Sam asks.

"Who knows, Tarly… I've heard it sung many ways, and 'blossoms' suits me best." Aemon turns his head in my direction. "But perhaps…? One last song from Katniss before she goes?"

"I have time for a song," I agree. "What do you want to hear? 'Rose of Gold' again?"

Aemon waves a hand dismissively. "Your rendition is lovely, my dear," he says. "But this time, I think a song from your country would do."

I falter. The gesture is kind, but piles on the pressure. What kind of song do you sing when you're saying farewell to a hundred-year-old man with blood of the dragon? I don't know if they have one for that in Panem…

Then it comes to me. A perfect fit, or at least the first thing I can think of. A sendoff to Aemon and to Lucy Gray and to me. And if it can charm snakes, maybe it can charm a dragon.

So I settle more comfortably in my seat. With one hand, I activate my camera. The other hand reaches out to grasp his. Then I clear my throat, take in a cleansing breath, and I sing him one of my Lucy's songs. The one she sang in the arena.

"La, la, la, la
La, la, la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la, la

You're headed for heaven,
The sweet old hereafter,
And I've got one foot in the door.
But before I can fly up,
I've loose ends to tie up,
Right here in the old therebefore.

And I'll be along
When I've finished my song,
When I've shut down the band,
When I've played out my hand,
When I've paid all my debts,
When I have no regrets,
Right here in
The old therebefore,
When nothing
Is left anymore.

And I'll catch you up
When I've emptied my cup,
When I've worn out my friends,
When I've burned out both ends,
When I've cried all my tears,
When I've conquered my fears,
Right here in
The old therebefore,
When nothing
Is left anymore.

And I'll bring the news
When I've danced off my shoes,
When my body's closed down,
When my boat's run aground,
When I've tallied the score,
And I'm flat on the floor,
Right here in
The old therebefore,
When nothing
Is left anymore.

When I'm pure like a dove,
When I've learned how to love,
Right here in
The old therebefore,
When nothing
Is left anymore."

I finish the song softly, letting the final note hang in the air before evaporating like smoke and drifting out the window. Then I glance down at Aemon, and I find tears in his pale eyes. He squeezes my hand as I study them, wondering what color they must've been before blindness formed its white veil. After a moment, I squeeze back.

There's a part of me that doesn't want to release, doesn't want to leave if Sam's right and he doesn't have a week. Like I should be here when his fire goes out. But the other part of me says Hardhome doesn't have a week either. So when his grip loosens, I slide my hand free and stand up, starting to walk towards the door.

"I think Egg would have liked that song," he whispers, making me stop.

Gilly, holding a now-sleeping Little Sam, looks up with the same confusion that must be on my face. Sam clarifies, "His little brother, Aegon. He became king."

Aegon. That's right. Shireen spoke of him in her Targaryen teachings. I smile, trying to imagine Aemon as an older brother. That should have made him king first, but he joined the Night's Watch to make sure the crown passed to Aegon. He must've really cared for his brother to give up everything for him. He loved Egg, just as I had loved Prim.

But Shireen also told me about the tragedy at Summerhall. In the end, neither of us could protect them as they burned. And here we are, up north in the cold, outliving them.

"Goodbye, Maester Aemon," I say.

He beams in the direction of my voice. "Goodbye, Katniss Everdeen," he says warmly. "Keep singing your songs."

Gilly is going to stay in the maester's quarters with Aemon, so we get in a good long hug outside his room as Sam holds the baby for her, then I give Little Sam some love too before heading outside. Sam was going to walk me out to the courtyard, but I need to get my things first, so he offers to fetch my horse from the stables. I thank him, promising to meet him out there in a few minutes.

Returning to my room, I make sure my arrows are accounted for and arranged by color, slide the sheath and pack onto my shoulders, and secure my dragonglass dagger in my belt. Then I adjust my arm bands and black mockingjay pin before grabbing my bow and stepping out of my room.

Out in the courtyard, the brothers who are going with are currently saddling their horses. Others are either going about their day as usual, like the smith at his anvil, or standing by and looking on in disapproval, like Yarwyck and Bowen Marsh. I hear Thorne before I see him, laying into Jon about the mission for what I'm sure is far from the first time. Sam, who has already brought my horse, is standing in the background patiently waiting for Thorne to finish berating him so he can say goodbye.

"—reckless, foolhardy, and an insult to all the brothers who have died fighting the wildlings," Thorne's saying, back turned to me as I round a corner and descend the first flight of stairs.

Jon is respectful, but barely fazed. "As always, thank you for your honesty," he replies, glancing past Thorne and over his shoulder as he starts to turn away.

Then he stops, does a double take. His eyebrows shoot up considerably as he catches sight of me.

I try not to feel embarrassed descending the second staircase. It's harder when Thorne turns to see what Jon's looking at, and he's briefly taken aback before his expression turns into a squint and a scowl. Some of the other Night's Watch men are staring too. Maybe the Mockingjay uniform is too much. But it's warm, especially coupled with my shadowskin cloak, and as black as their own, so I thought it would blend in. I guess I was wrong about that.

Looking past them, I see a man I recognize standing near the horses with Edd. He stands out like a sore thumb, not just because he's not wearing black, but because he's built like an ox and he has a messy mane of orange hair, freckled with snowflakes. But his towering form is bent slightly and his head is lowered like he's staring down at his feet. At first I think he's just being humble, but then I see Buttercup prowling around his legs.

I greet Jon, giving him a nod and quick half-smile, and excuse myself as I move around Thorne. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Olly watching me with a small frown. I pay it no mind and stride across the courtyard to join the others.

"I like this cat," the man's saying to Edd with a chuckle. He picks him up, unbothered by his feeble growl. "Ginger. Kissed by fire."

"He's had his brushes with it," I confirm, walking over to my horse. Throwing Sam a smile in thanks, I slide my pack off my shoulder and secure it to the saddle. "Though, for the record, actually being kissed by fire? Not as fun as it sounds."

As I'm putting everything into place, I feel his eyes on me. "No?" he asks promptingly, like he doesn't believe me.

I look over my shoulder at him as he puts Buttercup back down. "It uses its tongue."

He gives a pronounced lift of his eyebrows. "Sounds like fun to me."

Despite myself, I laugh, until Edd sends me a subtle look – a reminder that, shackles or not, this is a former wildling prisoner – so I bite my lip to stifle it. But then Jon comes up from behind me and joins us. "Katniss, this is Tormund Giantsbane. He's the new leader of the free folk I told you about." He turns to me, pauses, looks me up and down before continuing. "Tormund, this is… this is Katniss Everdeen."

I shift the shadowskin cloak awkwardly, covering up more. I knew the Mockingjay suit was too much.

"Ah," Tormund says knowingly. "The singing crow."

"Crow…?" I ask, looking to Jon for help.

"It's what the free folk call the men of the Night's Watch," he explains.

"Oh," I say, glancing at the black fringe on his cloak. I'm guessing it's because it looks like feathers. "Well, I'm neither of those things. More of a mockingjay, really."

"What's a mockingjay?" Tormund asks.

Jon answers for me. "A bird from her country."

"And they sing a whole lot better than crows," I add, which makes Jon chuckle.

It's time to go. Jon says goodbye to Sam first, who wishes him safe travels and hands him a clinking bag. In the meantime, I find Ghost and say farewell, since he's clearly unhappy that we're not going beyond the Wall together this morning. On top of that, I'm leaving with Jon through a different gate and we're not taking him with us. Talk about betrayal.

I show him some affection to make up for it, until I locate Buttercup watching us from nearby. Feeling inexplicably sentimental, I go to him and scoop him up while I wait. Besides the trip to Districts 3 and 4 back in July, and to the cave, this is the first time since our reunion in 12 that we won't be in the same vicinity as each other for a while.

I don't want to look like the crazy person talking to a cat, but out of the corner of my mouth, I mutter to him, "You be nice to Sam and Gilly while I'm gone." The hell with it. I hold him up and look him in the eye. "Don't beat up Ghost. I need him to protect them."

He looks past me at the horses, eyes darting, clearly paying me no attention. Maybe he's more interested in his fellow ginger.

Whatever. I put him back down and go to Sam for my turn at a goodbye. "Safe travels, Katniss," he says.

"Thanks, Sam," I say. "Don't get into too much trouble while we're gone."

A smile crosses his face. "I can't make any promises," he says with a nervous chuckle.

I laugh too. "Me neither," I say, and give him a hug.

Returning to our horses, Jon offers me his hand and helps me onto mine. Which is probably unnecessary at this point, since I've been riding every day for almost two weeks, but every day that he meets me out here, he's done it anyway. Having grown up in a noble house, he must consider it rude not to. It certainly earns him a curious look from Tormund, though.

Gripping the reins, I take one last sweeping glance of Castle Black. The brothers on the horses behind me. The stone castles I've grown used to. The cage-like elevator that took me to the top of the Wall that first night. The lingering stares of the men we're leaving behind. And Thorne, still glaring beside the stairs.

Then I turn my gaze ahead and nod to Jon. Urging my horse forward, I follow him and Tormund to the west gate, and ride through its open doors for the first time.

Chapter Text

For the first few hours of the journey east, snow falls steadily as I follow Jon and Tormund across a new stretch of land. It's the same vast whiteness as the other side of the Wall, just with fewer mountains and trees, but I still find myself turning my camera back on and looking around at everything. The Wall remains in sight to our left, beautiful from this distance and angle. From my memory of the maps I've read, we'll be passing several abandoned castles as we follow it to Eastwatch. Which, as its full name suggests, lies by the sea, only a four day's ride from here.

It's hard to wrap my head around the closeness of it. No, not the closeness, the accessibility. Our corner of District 12 hugs the east coast, but Gale and I never dared travel that far when we went beyond the fence. We only ever went as far northeast as the lake. My father said Panem's eastern shoreline was somewhere on the other side of it. But walking around would leave us exposed to hovercrafts, and crossing it wasn't an option, since unlike Eastwatch, District 12  is decidedly lacking in boats and ships. As near as we were to the coast, I didn't see an actual ocean in person until the Victory Tour stop in District 4.

The Night's Watch brothers mainly talk amongst themselves while I drink in our surroundings. But a few hours in, when Jon points out the ruins of Oakenshield to me, my reaction seems to draw Tormund's attention.

"You'd think she'd never seen a broken castle before," he says aside to Jon.

"She's never seen this side of Westeros before," Halder corrects.

Tormund glances back at us, then at Jon questioningly. "She came from beyond the Wall," says Jon.

"Did she?" Tormund throws another look over his shoulder, scrutinizing me. "Thought Mance and I knew most of the free folk. You from the Nightrunners? The Frozen Shore?"

I blink back at him. "District Twelve," I say. "In Panem."

From the "ah" sound he makes, this must successfully jog his memory. "Right. A foreign girl!" he says with vigor. To Jon, he adds, "You didn't let her through the gate in chains."

"She had information about my uncle," Jon counters.

"So I've heard." Tormund looks back at me again, curious. "And where did you run into him? The elusive Benjen Stark?"

I alternate between meeting his gaze and trying to record Oakenshield before we pass it. "Uh, just west of Craster's Keep," I say, turning more fully to face him.

There's a pause, then Jon starts chuckling to himself, shaking his head as if in disbelief.

"What's so funny?" I ask warily.

On my left, it's Edd who answers for him. "We fought at Craster's two months ago," he tells me. "Three weeks before you arrived."

"Feels like I just missed him," Jon admits, glancing back at me briefly. I manage to catch a glimpse of a wistful, halfhearted grin before he turns his head again.

Biting my lip in guilt, I avert my eyes to the Wall, and to Oakenshield behind us, abandoned and ruined. "Well, I didn't find him. He found me," I say modestly. "And it's a good thing he did. I probably would've kept going east otherwise, unless the white walkers chased me south. And even then, I wouldn't have known which castle had anyone to let me through if he hadn't told me."

"Don't need men to let you through," says Tormund smugly. "Just have to be brave enough to climb."

I peer doubtfully at the Wall and make a face, which gets a sympathetic laugh from Jeren as he's riding up on my right. "Only three out of nineteen castles are manned," he reminds me. "You'd have to do either a lot of walking, or a lot of climbing."

The topic comes up again after we've stopped to make camp for the night, close to Woodswatch-by-the-Pool. Another abandoned castle. Halder, who apprenticed as a stonemason before he joined the Watch, tells me there's a ruined staircase at Woodswatch that leads all the way up to the Wall on the southern side. As for the north side? I'd be out of luck.

"It's the same at Greyguard," says Tormund, through bites of food. "Some of the steps are collapsed, though. As Snow here well remembers."

Halder looks at Tormund across the fire, then at Jon. "That's where you and his lot…?" he says, trailing off.

"We climbed somewhere near Stonedoor, then crossed to Greyguard," Jon answers. "Took the steps down from there."

Mouth agape, my eyes fly toward the Wall and then back to Jon in bewilderment. "I'm sorry, you actually climbed that thing?" I blurt out, pointing like an idiot.

Jon lowers his gaze as if this is a feat to be humble about, but Tormund perks up immediately.

"He didn't tell you?" he asks. "This little crow is quite the climber. One of the few of us who made it to the top. Even survived his rope being cut loose."

I stare back and forth between the two of them, unsure if Tormund is pulling my leg or if Jon is much crazier than I thought. If this happened after he joined the Night's Watch, then it was also after his brother Bran plummeted to what could have been his death after climbing a tower. A tower! And yet, as if tempting fate, Jon went ahead and scaled a seven-hundred-foot wall of ice.

Though obviously he managed just fine. And he did mention Bran had no incidents up until that day. Still, these brothers and their climbing… Must be a Stark thing.

"That's a long way up," I say after I've mostly collected myself, lifting my eyebrows at him. "Or a long way down."

He scoffs out a weak laugh, shifting in his seat as he cups his warm drink in his hands. "Didn't exactly have a gate we could pass through," he says, taking a sip. After a moment, his forehead furrows in thought. "How far west of Craster's were you? Do you know? What castle would you have found, if Benjen just sent you south and hadn't mentioned Castle Black?"

Oh, actually I think I do know this. I can picture the map in my mind. "Probably either Hoarfrost Hill, Icemark, or… Nightfort," I say.

The last one gets a significant reaction from the Night's Watch brothers. A united chorus of grimaces and adamant objection. "You would not want to go to Nightfort," Jeren assures me.

"Why? What's Nightfort?" I ask. I'm guessing there's more to it than the fact that it's unmanned.

Jon looks unsurprised by their unanimous response. A wince had crossed even his stoic face, however subtle it was. "It's the oldest castle on the Wall," he says. "As old as the Wall itself. It's existed for thousand of years." He gives his fellow brothers a knowing look. "Naturally, quite a lot of people believe it to be cursed or haunted. There are many dark tales surrounding it."

"Like what?" I press. Which is probably a mistake, since it's dark out and we're a stone's throw away from another abandoned castle. But my curiosity is piqued, and we're gathered around a fire. If ever there was a time and place for dark tales, this would be it.

Sure enough, suddenly the brothers are alert, every one of them more than eager to list off all the scary stories they've heard about the Nightfort.

Jeren tells me the one about the Rat Cook, where a cook took out his anger towards a visiting king by killing his son and baking him into a pie, which he served to the king himself. As punishment for murdering a guest under his roof, the gods turned the cook into a giant white rat who could only feed on his own young. He still roams the Nightfort, devouring his children. Never satisfied. Always hungry.

He laughs when I wrinkle my nose in disgust, but I'm struck by the story's gruesome similarity to the concept of the Games. A quite literal and cannibalistic version, but the message is the same. As always, it's the children in these kinds of stories who suffer.

Then Halder chimes in with the story of the Seventy-Nine Sentinels, or as he calls them, "the watchers in the Wall," where seventy-nine brothers deserted the Watch and went to one man's father for refuge. The father betrayed them, even his own son, and sent them back to the Nightfort, where they were buried alive inside the Wall, never again to abandon their post.

This one makes me shiver. Burned alive or buried, those are the worst ways to go. I still feel a flutter of panic whenever I go through Castle Black's tunnel, and that was before I considered the possibility of bodies in the ice.

Even Edd brings up Mad Axe, a man who went insane and murdered several of his sworn brothers. Albett starts to tell me about "Brave Danny Flint," a girl who disguised herself as a boy to join the Night's Watch, but Jon whips his head around and shoots him such a severe look that he abruptly cuts himself off. Instead, he encourages Jon to tell me about the Night's King, since it was a Stark who defeated him.

Appeased by the subject change, Jon tells me the story of the Night's King, a legendary Lord Commander from the Age of Heroes who fell in love with an ice-cold woman he discovered beyond the Wall. Leading her back to the Nightfort, he declared himself king and made her his queen, and they ruled over the Wall using sorcery to control all others, including his sworn brothers. Turns out Tormund knows this tale too, adding in that it wasn't until the King in the North, Brandon the Breaker, joined forces with Joramun, the King Beyond the Wall, that they were finally able to defeat him.

"They found out after they'd killed him that he'd been making human sacrifices to the white walkers," Jon finishes. "So they erased all records of him and made it forbidden to utter his name, and he was lost to history."

"Convenient," Edd mutters.

"Not unheard of," I say, thinking of Lucy Gray. But the first part hits me. "So, like Craster? With his sons?"

Jon blinks in faint surprise, then realizes. "Gilly told you about that?"

I confirm with a nod. "She said they were offerings to the gods," I say. "But since she had a white walker coming after her and Little Sam, I assumed…" With a shrug, my voice trails off there.

Tormund snorts his disgust. "What kind of man leaves his own babies in the woods to die?" he rasps. "If your gods start asking you to sacrifice your children for them, you need better gods."

Couldn't agree more, I think to myself. I feel a pair of eyes on me and find Jon gazing knowingly in my direction. Our eyes meet for a second before I look away. It's a little embarrassing, remembering how much he knows now. The subject has only come up in bits and pieces since we started focusing on the Hardhome trip, especially with me being preoccupied with the whole Snow and Lucy Gray thing.

"It's an interesting story, though. The Night's King," I say. Vaguely familiar, even, though I can't immediately put my finger on why. "I guess the concept of 'fairytale but disturbing' exists across all countries."

"What sort of stories you got in Panem?" Albett asks.

Several of the men around him chatter in agreement, save for Jon, who grows tense. "It's your turn, Katniss. Tell us a scary one," says Halder.

"Don't put her on the spot now," warns Jon. To me, he says, "You don't have to if you don't want to."

"It's fine. I'm just trying to think of one," I tell him.

The first thing that sprang to mind when they asked was the poem Lucy Gray's name was based on, but that doesn't seem spooky enough. Some fairytales I know are rather grim, but not quite the mood I'm looking for. The legend of the moon-eyed people might be either too simple or too strange. Then there's the thing with Lavinia that Gale and I witnessed, her fleeing in the woods with that boy, being snatched up and so suddenly whisked away by the hovercraft, screaming the impaled boy's name before they vanished into thin air. Her reappearing to me years later as an Avox, alive but maimed.

She's dead now, and I won't use her personal tragedy as a campfire story. Not when so much of it was my fault. After failing to save her that day, it would be like adding insult to injury…

"The Hanging Tree," says Tormund suddenly, breaking into my thoughts. "Your song. Is that based off anything?"

I glance over at him, relieved at the suggestion. "Yeah, actually," I say, and tell them what I know now. "It's about a coal miner in Twelve who tried to incite a rebellion. All he did was cause an explosion in the mines that killed three people and injured plenty others. They hanged him for it a month later. His last words were him telling his lover to run." I pause, thinking about what my mother's grandfather told her. "Mockingjays, the birds from my country, they have a knack for mimicking human sounds and melodies. So they must've echoed his cries right after his death. Hence the line, 'The dead man called out for his love to flee.'"

The Night's Watch brothers look a mix of intrigued and spooked, with Jon mostly lost in thought.

"Not a white walker, then," says Jeren.

Tormund scoffs. "The dead can't talk, boy."

I hide a flinch, hearing Gilly's voice echo the same thing in my head. "No, just a creepy birdsong," I say.

"Did she get away?" Jon asks. When I glance his way, he clears his throat and clarifies. "The lover from the song."

"Or was she the one singing it?" Edd offers. "Necklace of rope, side by side with me… probably killed herself out of grief."

I hesitate, then shake my head. "No," I say. "She died too, later. But she wasn't the one who wrote it." Unable to help myself, I lean in and continue in a conspiratorial tone. "They say the girl who wrote it was singing to her own lover. Hoping to run away with him. Maybe she was haunted by the hangings, or they'd both committed their own crimes, maybe they just wanted to be free. But something happened in the woods. A betrayal of some kind. He came back without her, and she was never seen again." My voice dies down to almost a whisper. "It's a mystery what happened to her after that."

"No, it's not," says Edd. "He killed her."

I roll my eyes at him. "Thank you, Edd, for your incredibly macabre interpretations."

Edd just shrugs and raises his cup to his lips, muffling a scoff into his drink.

"She didn't come back because she wanted to leave in the first place." Jon lifts his gaze from the fire. "He probably stayed out of duty. Told her to go on without him."

"Oh, that's nice," says Albett. "All on her lonesome in the wilderness? Where she could suffer the fate of brave Danny Flint?"

Jon looks perturbed. "I'll ask you not to mention that song again," he warns.

"You're all fools," Tormund drawls. "I think she survived, came to Westeros, and still sings her little song to this day." He lowers his voice to sound scary. "Perhaps she's sitting right here at this fire."

A chill ripples through my skin before I realize he's talking about me. "Oh, no, I'm not her," I murmur. "I don't write the songs. I just sing them."

I shouldn't have even told them any of this. I'm backsliding, fishing for answers again. I need a fresh distraction.

I'm opening my mouth to request another dark tale from the Nightfort when my earpiece interrupts me. Gale is on the other end, and he says it's important. Quickly, I excuse myself from the fire, pleading the bathroom excuse when some of the men speak up with nosy protests. Retreating to a small northern stretch of woods closer to the Wall, I connect to him as soon as I deem myself completely out of earshot.

As soon as I respond, Gale announces, "There's someone here who wants to say hello to you."

There's the sound of an earpiece being passed from hand to fumbling hand. And then a hesitant yet hopeful voice reaches my ear. "Katniss?"

My heart skips a beat. "Shireen?" I breathe out in relief.

She's so elated to hear from me, she forgives us both for not telling her about the earpieces until now. After explaining it to her, Gale and Shireen worked it out that they would pretend like she's reading her books aloud to him when she's really talking to me. If anyone walks in on them, they'll find Shireen with a book in her lap and Gale sitting there, paying rapt attention. It was her idea, which doesn't surprise me in the slightest, considering how clever it is.

I tell her everything that's happened since she left, omitting the parts about Lucy Gray since it's not worth the time I would use up explaining it to her. She may love a good story, but I can give her that with my tales of horseback riding practice beyond the Wall with Ghost. Or the fact that Buttercup is with Sam and Gilly and not me right now, because I've joined Jon and the Night's Watch brothers on their journey to Hardhome.

Shireen gushes excitedly at all of this, disappointed only when I regretfully inform her that Jon is not nearby to talk to her right now. Since he knows about the devices, I briefly toy with the idea of fetching him. But then I consider the implications of going back over there and inviting the Lord Commander to sneak away into the woods with me. Right in front of his Night's Watch brothers.

Yeah, maybe not.

It's just as well, since Shireen can't chat for very long. They'll resume their journey to Winterfell at sunrise, so her mother could come by at any moment to shoo Gale out and tell her to go to sleep. Instead, she asks for a song or two, which is a reasonable enough request. I sing her the river song, and then when she asks for one more, I search my memories for another. A Covey lullaby my father sang to me, something he said Cousin Barb Azure used to sing to Grandma Maude Ivory when she was sad.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away."

I pause here, listening to the woods, since I can't tell if there was a sound just now besides my voice. On my end or Shireen's. Though part of it is me feeling self-conscious about singing in the woods. I'm keeping my voice down, but what if it's still carrying all the way back to the camp?

Never mind. If I'm the strange foreign girl who goes off by herself to sing in the forest, so be it. I brush it off and continue.

"The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you by my side
When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head and I cried."

I'm starting to get why Prim didn't want to hear this one, and not just because she thought "hung" meant with a rope. I miss Shireen the way I miss Prim, even with a little piece of her in my ear.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away."

After the song fades out, she starts to plead for a third. I hem and haw about having to get back to the others, but I'm on the verge of giving in when I hear Selyse's voice, followed by the rustling of an earpiece being dislodged and hidden away. I whisper a goodnight, though she can't hear me, and click off before returning to the camp.

Other than Tormund crudely wondering what I must have eaten, the Night's Watch don't bother me much about my absence. I think Jon notices me putting my earpiece away, though. There are some questions later that night when I get my sleeping bag out, but luckily demonstrating the use of a zipper only a handful of times is both entertaining and good enough for them when they're too tired to press further.

However, Jon is surprised at how far I drag it away from the fire. "Won't you be cold?" he asks.

I shake my head. "The material reflects body heat," I tell him. "Besides, I'm a restless sleeper. Don't want to risk disturbing anyone."

"You wouldn't be," Jon says. "It would be better to stay close."

"He's right," Albett says, setting up his own makeshift bed of furs by the fire. "Don't know who or what might come crawling out of the woods at night. Shadowcats and the like."

Tormund snorts. "Think Snow meant he'd rather do the warming himself."

A few of the brothers laugh as Jon turns to throw Tormund an exasperated look. After giving it a moment's thought, I retreat towards my sleeping bag and start dragging it back to join the others.

"Well, you say 'shadowcat,' I hear 'new blanket,'" I say, settling in and pulling my shadowskin around me.

"After what the first did to your arm?" Jon turns his sternness towards me, albeit in a lighter dose. "That shadowcat had you cornered. You don't want another one catching you sleeping."

This quiets most of the brothers, their laughter dying down as they study the cloak I've clutched to my chest as a blanket. But it's Tormund who speaks up first.

"That's a real shadowskin, then?" he says. "You the one who killed it?"

"Yes," I say, trying not to glance at Jon too conspicuously. "With some help."

"When did you fight a shadowcat?" Edd asks.

I manage a shrug. "Two weeks ago. You had it for supper."

"And you never thought to tell us that story?" Halder says incredulously.

So I recount my ordeal with the shadowcat, starting with taking shelter in the cave for the night and ending with Ghost leading me back so I could get stitched up by Gilly. The Night's Watch brothers chatter excitedly about this one, remembering that night and giving Jon a hard time for grilling them about whether or not they'd seen me return.

Jon strongly hints at them to knock it off, so they switch to telling more stories about the Nightfort. Visions of hellhounds, a twisted weirwood tree in the kitchen, ghosts in the dungeons, and the Black Gate, a magical underground gate made of weirwood that only lets you pass if you recite part of the Night's Watch vow. For added effect, they all say it together in the most ominous voices they can muster.

"I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers. I am the shield that guards the realms of men."

"Then pass," Albett says in a booming voice, and they laugh.

Halder glances over at me, still grinning. "You'd have needed a sworn brother to let you through, but it's not coming south that's the problem," he tells me, doing his best to sound sinister. "They say that some who pass north through Nightfort's gate never come back again."

A few brothers scoff and jeer on the other side of the fire. As far as Nightfort stories go, this one must somehow be both the tamest and the most controversial.

"Wildlings?" guesses Jeren, and Tormund grunts.

"Would have left the bodies," says Halder.

"White walkers, then."

"How long they been awake? I heard of it happening in the last five hundred years."

While all of this is going on, I notice that Jon's face has fallen. In the firelight, a dark and faraway look has taken over his gray eyes as he chews the inside of his mouth. The same wistfulness as when I told him where I'd seen Benjen.

"You all right?" I whisper.

His gaze flicks to me, and he smiles kind of painfully. "Fine," he whispers back, barely heard over the arguments around the fire. "Get some rest." Raising his voice, he turns it towards the rest of the camp. "All of you. We ride again at first light."

The heated debate – featuring Albett's doubt that it was even limited to the Nightfort, and Edd's exasperated of course it's not limited to the Nightfort, they were deserters, you idiots – finally dies down, with only a few skeptical mumbles from the others as they bury themselves under their furs for the night.

As I burrow comfortably into my cloak and sleeping bag, my gaze shifts toward Jon, who still has that pensive expression on his face. I sense there's more to it than just "fine," but decide not to press the matter right now when he's about to fall asleep.

Instead, I roll onto my back and stare up at the sky, trying to remember the last time I slept this close to someone. It must've been in Tigris's cellar, with the surviving members of Squad 451. Nine months ago. In nine months, this is my first time sleeping in human company. I hope I don't do something stupid like wake up screaming.

Jon knows about my night terrors, though, and he seems to have accepted the risks. I guess he won't have far to go this time if he needs to check on me. He's practically within arm's reach. Like he said, it would be better to stay close.

Well, don't say I didn't warn you, I think to myself.

And I let myself give in to sleep, hoping that if any giant rats invade my dreams tonight, the shadowcats will eat them first – before the direwolves come and chase them away.

Rats do make an appearance in my dreams tonight. It's like a reprisal of my nightmare from back before the Quell, where Mags turns into a rodent and attempts to eat my face, except it's Lucy Gray this time, and at first she's chasing after a pastel-pink rat I assume is Prim. The moment I try to interfere, she pounces on me.

To my credit, I don't scream myself awake. But I do jolt halfway upright with an embarrassing snorty gasp. Albett stirs briefly at the sound, then turns over and is back to snoring in no time. Sighing, I lay my head back down and drop a hand to my forehead. I don't know if I'm more relieved that I'm awake, or that I didn't wake anyone else…

"Bad dream?" comes a voice in the dark.

I jolt again, cursing through another startled snort. Then I notice it's just Jon staring back at me, his sympathetic eyes now glinting with sheepish apology.

"Sorry, didn't realize anyone was up," I say. He only raises an eyebrow promptingly. "Carnivorous rats," I add with a sigh.

"We really shouldn't have filled your head with all those dark stories," says Jon. "Old Nan used to tell them to my brother Bran. They'd have him up at all hours of the night."

I laugh, oddly entertained at the thought of an old woman putting a little boy to bed with stories of cannibalistic vermin. "If it wasn't rats, it would have been something else," I tell him, then roll onto my side and look at him. "Why are you awake?"

Jon smiles faintly. "Can't seem to quiet my mind," he murmurs.

A hum of empathy escapes my lips. "Try to sleep," I warn him, shifting onto my back again and staring up at the sky. "Count the stars or something. Or else you'll hate yourself in the morning."

I hear a little scoff from Jon, but it's followed by a rustle of furs as he moves into the same position.

Luckily, I get through the night all right after that. My dreams mostly consist of wandering through ruins and castle grounds with Ghost at my side. The rats that do skitter across my path are the size they're supposed to be, and while my dream self does consider eating them, I can blame that on the jungle rats we had to eat in the Quarter Quell.

The next day is more of the same. We continue our journey east. The Night's Watch men bounce banter and inside jokes between themselves. Jon points out a ruined castle as we go by, and I discreetly film it for Beetee's sake.

Though somewhere between Sable Hall and Rimegate, the subject of music comes up. They never thought to have me sing anything last night since everyone was so invested in dark tales, and now they're debating amongst themselves which songs they've best liked hearing me sing, whether they be from Westeros or Panem. It occurs to me that I have more Covey songs to share now, so I say things like "Don't tell me I never sang you that one" and I fill the air with "Crawling to You," "Sell You For A Song," and "Nothing You Can Take From Me."

They're a hit with the Night's Watch brothers, especially the reaping song. The men laugh at the line "you can kiss my ass and then keep on walking," which makes me nearly crack up with them, but I manage to get through the rest despite the grin on my face.

It's only after the last one that Tormund finally pipes up. "I'm starting to get why Mance liked this girl," he says. "You ever taught her the song of the winter rose?"

Winter rose? At first, the name rings a bell. But then I realize I'm thinking of the story Stannis told me, the one with Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. That was more of a history lesson, and it involved an entire flower crown, not a singular rose.

Jon sees my confusion out of the corner of his eye. "It's a song Ygritte told me about," he says, facing forward with a slight frown. "She only told me the story; I never heard the lyrics."

Tormund harrumphs something about southerners. "One of Bael the Bard's songs," he explains aside to me. "He was King Beyond the Wall long before Mance. 'Fore that, he was a great raider…"

He goes on to tell me the story, and then teach me the song. Just like "Rose of Gold," it's another long ballad with a story. Lord Brandon Stark – not Jon's brother Brandon, or his uncle, or the builder, or the breaker, apparently there's a lot of Brandons in the Stark family tree – but whoever was Lord Brandon Stark in Bael's time, he was furious that he could never capture Bael and take his head, so he called him a craven who preyed on the weak. Bael, having heard what Lord Stark was saying about him, scaled the Wall, traveled the kingsroad, and came to Winterfell under a fake name as a singer and harp-player.

Since as I myself would know, singers are always warmly welcomed, Bael ate at Lord Stark's table and performed hours and hours of songs through the night, some old, some new. When he was done, Lord Stark was so pleased that he asked Bael to name his own reward. But all Bael asked for was a flower, "the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o' Winterfell."

At the time, the winter roses had just come into bloom, and the ones that grew in Winterfell's glass gardens were the rarest and most precious of all. So Lord Stark commanded that the most beautiful winter rose be plucked from that garden for the singer's reward. Then, in in the morning, the singer was gone, and so was Lord Stark's daughter. Her bed was empty, save for the blue winter rose Bael had left on her pillow.

Having no other children, Lord Stark ordered a search, but a year went by with no sign of the bard or the girl. Her father gave up and took to his bed, waiting to die and let the Stark line end with him, until one night he heard a child's cry. He followed the sound to his daughter's bedchamber, where he found her asleep with a baby at her breast. Turns out they'd been in Winterfell the whole time, hiding in the crypts. The Stark girl had fallen in love with Bael, and they'd had a son together. In the end, Bael returned the child as payment for the rose he'd plucked without permission, and the boy would grow up to be the next Lord Stark.

"So the Stark girl is the winter rose," I say at the end, slowly getting it. Kind of like the Tyrell girl is the true "rose of gold" in Aemon's song.

"The fairest flower in all of Winterfell," Tormund agrees with a grin.

We've dismounted to give our horses a rest. Most of us are either walking to stretch our legs, feeding and watering the horses, or getting something to eat or drink ourselves. I warm my fingers around a flask of tea, take a swig, then chuckle as a thought hits me. "It kind of works as a Covey name."

"Covey?" Jeren repeats, shamelessly eavesdropping.

"A group of traveling singers, from my father's mother's side of the family," I say, and explain the Covey naming tradition of using songs and colors. "So, there was my grandmother Maude Ivory Baird, from the Panem ballad 'Maude Clare,' and her cousin Barb Azure, from 'Barbara Allen.' But in some cases, the first and second name can both come from the ballad, like her other cousin, who's named after the poem 'Lucy Gray.'" I turn to Tormund as an epiphany strikes. "Which, incidentally, is another song about a man's daughter disappearing."

"So, you're saying Winter Rose counts as that kind of name," Jon interjects, drawing my attention towards him, "since the song is called Winter Rose, and rose counts as a color."

"Exactly," I say. "Though it's a nice name on its own. Winter Rose. Also sort of fits with my mother's side's tradition of naming their kids after flowers."

Jon grins at me. "I thought you were named after a potato," he teases.

"Hey!" I say, laughing. "The katniss plant has flowers. With three white petals. You've got to be able to identify it if you want to eat it."

"Oh, I'm sure he'll make a meal of it one day," says Halder from up ahead, and a few of the men near him start snickering for some reason.

Jon stiffens, his eyes opening a fraction wider as he frowns in their direction. "Excuse me, my lady," he says under his breath, slipping again on the title, and he strides to the front of the group to talk to them.

Bemused, I turn back to resume talking to Tormund, who's looking at me appraisingly.

"The name was Baird, you said," he notes. "A foreign word for bard?"

"Or bird," I offer with a shrug.

"Nature's singers," says Tormund.

I incline my head, conceding he has a point. "You might be right, actually," I say, walking alongside him as we follow the Night's Watch with our horses. "My grandmother and her cousins, their fathers were brothers. And before they were the Covey, apparently they used to call themselves The Brothers Baird." Or so it's scrawled in the covers of their old folklore, song, and poetry books. When there's a bit of a pause, I remember the universe knowledge gap. "After the Brothers Grimm, a couple of ancient storytellers," I clarify, then look to Tormund expectantly. "Bards are just singing storytellers, right?"

"Bards. Birds. Bairds…" Tormund gives a snort. "Singers and storytellers alike, the Starks seem to have a weakness for them."

Then he's doing that appraising stare again, only with a meaningful eyebrow lift, and I have to avert my gaze because we both know he's not just talking about Bael and the Stark girl. Embarrassed, I cover it up with a gulp of tea from my flask and pretend that's the source of the heat rising in my cheeks.

"A Stark, once thought lost, reappears to you," he continues grandly. "Saved you from the white walkers, yes?"

"Yep," I say, not wanting to divulge anything incriminating. "Rode right out of the Haunted Forest, took 'em down one by one."

My answer is satisfactory enough for Tormund, who gives a "ha!" of revelation. "Hiding amongst the dead," he says.

The phrasing makes me nervous at first, but I see what he's getting at. "Then, wouldn't that make me Lord Stark in that situation?" I ask. "Instead of Bael?"

"You do have the look of a Stark," he says, studying my features. "Probably why he came to your rescue…" A pause as he considers this. "You sure you don't have a little Stark in you?"

"Pretty sure," I say, giving him the short answer while taking another sip from my flask.

Tormund glances over at Jon, then back at me with a knowing twinkle in his eye. He lowers his voice to a whisper. "Would you like to?"

It takes a split second for my brain to translate, but when realization hits, I almost choke on my drink. I swallow the tea down hard and cough out half a gasp, turning to glare at him with stupidly wide eyes. Tormund promptly bursts out laughing, his roaring guffaws loud enough to carry to the front of the group and cause Jon to throw a suspicious look over his shoulder.

"Tormund, what are you saying to her?" he demands, doing a double take because surely my face says it all.

Tormund's grin only widens, pure mischief stretching from ear to ear. "By the way," he intones, "when I say little, I mean little."

With that, he starts walking ahead, or maybe I've just slowed down in a state of flustered shock. I did not need to know that, nor do I care, and anyway, how does he know that? I blink furiously and shake my head to rid myself of these thoughts before they stick, like a dog drying out its fur. But it ends up proving useless when I hear Jon call my name, see him glance curiously in my direction before prompting me forward with a simple lift of his eyebrows. I watch him absently stroke his horse's neck, threading his fingers in her black mane, and a shiver of longing shoots through me.

"Damn you, Tormund," I grumble under my breath, then wrap my shadowskin tighter around me and plod across the snow.

Chapter Text

On the second night, we make camp near Rimegate. The Night's Watch men share a few more creepy stories, but when they try to dig one out of me, Jon cuts in and reminds them that some of us need to be able to sleep after this.

Some of the brothers jeer in protest – "Katniss isn't scared," Albett insists – but they obediently switch to jokes and funny anecdotes. When it's my turn, I'm able to chime in with the story about me, the bear, and the beehive, which of course gets a big laugh from them and gets them all loudly singing "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" at me. I can only laugh along and hide my face in my hands, because Davos did indirectly warn me this would happen.

In the midst of this, I hear Tormund say, "I've got a better bear story than that—"

"No, you don't," Jon says warningly.

Eventually the teasing and laughter ceases on the condition that I sing instead, so I agree and introduce them to "The Parting Glass," "Come Away to the Water," and "Tomorrow Will Be Kinder." During the last one, Tormund leans over and whispers to Jon, and I'm still wary about him from our earlier exchange so I end up asking about it later.

Jon simply blinks and answers graciously, "Tormund was just saying he could hear Mance accompanying the song on his lute."

"Oh," I say, feeling dumb for being so nosy. Then, to cover my tracks: "Mance played the lute?"

"Came to Winterfell, years back. Same time as King Robert," says Jon. "Played it at the feast in disguise."

I raise an eyebrow. "Like Bael in the song? I hope all your roses were accounted for."

Jon chuckles in confirmation. "Did you play any instruments back in Panem?" he asks, passing me a drink. Our fingertips brush as I grasp the cup, and I silently blame Tormund for the fact that I'm even noticing.

"Tried to learn, at least," I say, warming myself with a sip. "Gave the flute a try, but it turned out Prim was the one who had a knack for it. And Madge, my friend who gave me the mockingjay pin, she taught me a little piano. But she was always better at it, so I preferred listening."

Jon smiles, but his eyes crinkle with a bit of intrigued confusion. "What's a piano?"

I try to explain the concept and makeup of a piano but fail miserably; it's hard to explain something you have no idea how to build yourself. Still, he doesn't laugh at me too much for attempting to demonstrate on an invisible one, just grinning and following my hands with his eyes when I briefly pretend to tap imaginary keys like an idiot. I put an end to that and instead have him list off the instruments he knows. It's kind of interesting, knowing what musical tools we share – across countries for him, but universes for me.

Westeros has fiddles and flutes, drums and pipes, harps and horns and trumpets. No guitars or pianos, though. Which is a shame because Jon has very graceful fingers, slender and nimble-looking, great for piano. I could easily see them dancing across the keys with a talent just like Madge. He's quiet and kind and brave like her, so it would suit his temperament. Plus I think it would be somewhat mesmerizing to watch.

We go to sleep soon after that, but maybe the brothers should have told scary stories tonight. Because without grisly tales of rats and murderers and ghosts, I dream of Jon putting his hands on me instead.

I wake up in the middle of the night with a shuddered gasp and hope beyond hope it's the only noise I've made. Outside of the dream, that is. In it, we seemed to be in an amalgamation of an abandoned Night's Watch castle and the ruins of Mayor Undersee's house, since there was a piano somewhere in the rubble, but suffice it to say Jon's interest in it had been fleeting.

After all, why tickle those ivories when he could… well…

Not just my cheeks, my entire body is flushed just thinking about it, setting me aflame in an already toasty sleeping bag. I drag my hands down my face and sigh, relieved when no one else – not even Jon – shows signs of consciousness. I look over at him just to be sure. Shifting suddenly in his furs, he gives a slight groan that is incredibly unhelpful to my current state. But yes, he's asleep. And he's one of the men sleeping closest to me, so I haven't disturbed anyone except for myself.

Taking in deep breaths to calm myself, I stare up at the sky and attempt to make sense of this world's constellations. I want to blame Tormund again, for putting thoughts in my head, but I know realistically it isn't all stemming from one little joke. It's also the proximity, the way I can turn on my side and see him there, peaceful in sleep, dark curls framing his face. It's the fact that I have nothing to distract me, with Gale and Shireen radio-silent tonight, and my Lucy Gray case abandoned at Aemon's bedside.

If the other Snow was still on my mind, I would never have dreamt anything like that. But now there is just Jon Snow, sleeping close to me, almost like Peeta used to. A warm and powerful presence, comforting and protective. The wolf in the cave.

It's an intimacy I cannot deny that I miss. It's just strange to get a taste of it again. That's all it is.

My trance is broken when his forehead wrinkles and he shifts again, releases another groan that makes my heart stutter. Breathing deeply, he moves around under his furs with a languid sort of restlessness, bunching them up in his fists as he hugs them closer. Then his eyes snap open and he shoots halfway upright with a shaky gasp.

The suddenness of it startles me. Instinctively, I burrow deeper into my furs and close my eyes to feign sleep, heart thudding in the stillness of night. Jon would probably be able to hear it if he weren't still panting from his dream. Curious, I sneak a peek at him through half-closed lids, just as he sinks back into his furs.

"Seven hells," he breathes out, kneading at his temples.

A pang of sympathy rings in my chest, and I crack open my eyes a little more, tempted to comfort him. I was never awake when Peeta had nightmares; it was always him soothing me back to sleep. But when Jon glances my way, I close them again in a panic. If I reveal that I'm awake, he may ask how long, or he'll ask me about my dream just as he did the night before. And this is something I cannot tell him. Which would be sure to confuse him. I told him about the cannibal rats dream, and the Games, and the lizard mutts, he might point out, so what could be worse than that?

At which point, if he hasn't read between the lines already, my blush would certainly give me away.

While I'm battling these thoughts, I hear Jon carefully get to his feet. I allow myself a sliver of vision and see him making his way through the maze of sleeping Night's Watch brothers before walking off in the direction of the woods. An insufferable urge to follow him rises in me, filled with curiosity and an uncomfortable longing, but I push it back down, firmly reminding myself that some trips to the woods need to be alone.

Rolling onto my other side, I squirm deeper inside the sleeping bag, muffle a sigh into my furs, and try again for sleep.

The third day brings us past Long Barrow, which I intently record for Beetee even though I don't know how many abandoned castles he cares about, but it's better than risking a flinch when Jon glances fleetingly back at me to add to Halder's information about it. He's been staring ahead and talking to his brothers for the most part, which I appreciate, but I need more time to get less jumpy about last night's dream.

The next time we stop to rest our horses, I come up with some excuse and escape into the nearest veil of trees while the men talk amongst themselves. I finally contact Beetee, who thanks me for the castle footage, pleased to see this side of the Wall and how far it stretches. In turn, he lets me know where he's at with the drone. He's gone so far north that he's reached an arctic tundra with a constant snowstorm and low visibility. Therefore, even though he was fascinated by this one rather ominous-looking mountain, he's bringing the drone back around now, potentially through a southwest route if he dares navigate the Frostfangs again.

I ask if he's heard from Gale, and he gives me an update there as well. The Baratheon army is supposed to make camp near Winterfell in a couple days or so. Lately, Gale has been reaching out to him to connect to his mother and siblings. I miss hearing from Shireen, but I don't blame him for using his own rest time this way. Still, I can't help wondering how much he's told Hazelle. If she knows, for example, that her son has joined another army. This time at my own request.

Beetee assures me he'll tell Gale I've been asking about Shireen, which is a relief because we're closing in on Eastwatch and tomorrow is probably my last chance to hear from them for over a week. I thank him and wrap up the conversation, then head back to the group, where I'm met with some lighthearted teasing that I must be one of the Children of the Forest. It's a conspiracy theory that lasts the rest of the break, and probably thirty minutes after, with their main points boiling down to the fact that I'm small, I hunt and sing, and I like the woods. I let Jon help me back onto my horse, something he didn't do this morning, and counter most of this with the crucial point that I am still, in fact, not from Westeros.

"West of Westeros, then," Tormund says. When the rest of us look at him, he turns his gaze to Jon with a lift of his eyebrows. "Said she'd been heading east when she met your uncle."

I wince at my mistake. Telling people things about Panem is one thing, but in terms of direction, maybe I shouldn't have been so specific.

To my relief, most of the men still look clueless. "What's west of Westeros?" Jeren whispers aside to Albett, probably not wanting to sound ignorant.

Albett just shrugs. "Panem, apparently."

I'm still anxious, but my unease lightens somewhat. It's like Maester Aemon once said, there are parts of this world that are still unmapped. I haven't seen any maps that show more than Westeros and Essos, so if they want to believe Panem is a continent west of here, no one can really argue otherwise. But hopefully they'll leave it at that.

Luckily, they drop the subject as the storms start to pick up. It's getting colder, the winds blowing more harshly and whipping the snow all around. I'm exceedingly grateful for the warmth my Mockingjay suit offers, and for my shadowskin, which I wrap tightly around me. The storm is only just calming down when we pass The Torches, and we set up camp not long after.

Jon and Halder have some trouble lighting the fire tonight. I'm too impatient for a roaring flame to wait for the flint to behave, so I get my box of matches from my pack and bring them over to the pile of wood.

"Don't freak out, don't freak out," I warn, and strike the match. With a hiss, it flares to life, and about four Night's Watch men yelp or holler at varying volumes and leap back. I snort despite my best efforts, then lean in and use it to get the fire going.

Naturally, I'm prompted to explain why I possess tiny torches of my own, and I placate them with the concept of matches while wasting just one more to demonstrate.

"And here you've been letting us use flint like fools," Edd complains playfully.

"Hey, I don't have a lot of them on me," I shoot back, putting the match box back in my pack. "They're only for special occasions. Like me being fucking cold."

This brings on a few laughs and jeers from the Night's Watch men, since the curses I've used around them are not usually so obscene, and clearly they've had a bad influence on me.

"All right, Match Girl," says Edd.

I do something between a shudder and a laugh as I take a seat by him and warm my hands. "Don't say that. She freezes to death."

"Who does?" Jon asks, looking mildly unsettled from across the fire.

"The Little Match Girl," I say, and that's how I wind up telling them their first otherworldly fairytale. The one about the shivering, hungry little girl, wandering through the streets on a snowy winter's day, unable to sell a single match to anyone but afraid to go home to a chilly house and face the consequences of her failure. Striking matches to keep herself warm, she saw in each one a glimpse of something wonderful and comforting – the last being her late grandmother, come to take her from this cold, cruel world. In the morning, people found a smiling dead girl surrounded by burnt matches.

I remember thinking about this story, the day Peeta threw me the bread. In my case, it was not snow but icy rain, baby clothes rather than matches, and instead of an abusive father I had a starving sister and catatonic mother who relied on me. When I staggered by the bakery, shaking and ashamed with nothing to bring home, the heat of the ovens reminded me of the great iron stove in the girl's first vision, and the delicious smell of bread made me think of the feast with the roast goose in the second. Then the baker's wife chased me off, and I sank down against the trunk of an old apple tree, which was not adorned with lights or decorations but seemed to me like a good place to die.

Visions in the flames. Only the Red Woman believes in that sort of thing. I had no matches on me anyway, but I really wondered that if I closed my eyes, I would see my own dead grandmother coming to take my frozen body away. Just like the girl in her fairytale books, and just like my grandmother herself only a year before.

But I didn't see a shooting star, or Grandma Rosemary. I saw Peeta. Throwing me real bread. Scorched at the edges like the matches in the story, but giving me so much more than fleeting warmth. Smuggled under my shirt, they burned into my skin but filled my family's stomachs, and we made it through another winter.

Peeta. It occurs to me that just a year ago in District 13, Gale and the rest of the rescue mission finally brought him back to me. Damaged but alive, his memory of that day one of the few left untarnished.

Telling this story was a mistake. It makes me miss him a lot. The bread that told me I didn't have to be the starved, icy corpse lying against a tree. The dandelion that promised a future for me, for my family. There was a time I thought it would involve him.

But honestly, I think as I glance around the campfire, who could ever have predicted this?

When I finish the story, the Night's Watch brothers rightfully condemn it as depressing, especially in this weather, and ask me if I know any other songs or stories that aren't about little girls freezing to death. Feeling sarcastic at worst and cheeky at best, I quip that I know just the one, and start singing "The Cremation of Sam McGee" to them.

It's a silly, fast-paced song based on an old poem, where a gold prospector from down south can't take the chill of the north and makes his friend promise to cremate him in the likely event he succumbs to the cold. Sure enough, he's a corpse by nightfall, so his friend keeps his word and builds a makeshift crematorium, then stuffs Sam's body inside. When he comes back to look, he's met with a big surprise.

The men are thrown at first, when the slow beginning stanza first mentions Sam McGee, but by the second verse they're all cracking up at the line "he'd often say in his homely way that 'he'd sooner live in hell.'" Even Jon is wrestling a grin and a grimace throughout the rest of the song, but the rest of the brothers are shamelessly tapping their feet or otherwise adding a rhythm. They have a good laugh at the final verse where the friend finds Sam sitting up in the crematorium, warm and happy as can be, and when I repeat the last line, a handful of them gleefully come in at the end: "'Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm!'"

It becomes a fast favorite among the Night's Watch men, with most of them wondering why I've never sung it before. The truth is that I only remembered it after the Commander Hoff birthday footage, but I go with the excuse that I didn't want to sing the song around our Sam. This turns out to be a mistake, because the moment I say it, a bunch of the brothers get big grins on their faces and easily come up with a rendition that rhymes McGee with Tarly, and Tennessee with The Reach. Soon, they're boisterously teaching it to each other and singing it around the fire while I'm burying my face in my hands.

"What have I done?" I groan into my palms.

Jon, who has come around the fire to sit near me, chuckles sympathetically. "Maybe they'll get tired of it by the time we return to Castle Black."

"Unlikely," Edd says with a snort.

"It's a long song – how did they even learn it so fast?" I ask in dismay. I had hoped that they wouldn't share my family's gift of instantly memorizing anything set to music, but apparently it isn't an issue. At least not for Albett, who had the song down in no time and is now merrily helping his brothers with the lyrics.

"Well, some of these men are from the North," Edd grunts, reaching over to pick up his drink. "And you know what they say." He raises his cup in mock salute before taking a long swig. "The North remembers."

"Actually, I didn't know they said that," I mutter, which earns a laugh from Jon.

"It's not so much about retaining songs as it is remembering past injustices, or promises we've made, vows we've sworn," he says, and cracks a faint grin. "Mostly it just means we're good at holding grudges."

Despite myself, I feel my lips curve upward. "I'm starting to think the North really gets me."

Jon grins a bit more, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way they do when he's particularly pleased by something, and my heart skips a beat as I remember the reason I didn't initially choose to sit by him. Worried he'll be able to see last night's dream in mine, I turn my gaze to the fire and feign a studious interest in the flickering flames.

The moment would've been broken, anyway, because a few seconds later Halder calls out to me to settle an argument. Turns out that some of the noise on that side of the campfire isn't them learning the song but debating the end of it. Almost half the men are convinced that Sam McGee is dead at the end, his body's been burnt and it's just his ghost warming himself. The other half, including Tormund, insist that the singer found Sam alive and well. Jon sides with this interpretation, and I do too, since that's what my father believed – that the fire hadn't fully consumed Sam, just melted away the death and cold. I can hear my father's voice in my head, even now. He was fine, Katniss, he just needed a little thawing out.

Of course, then Jeren compares the Sam McGee of this version to "that dragon queen" and the men happily come up with the title "Sam the Unburnt," which prompts me to threaten a vow of songless silence if they sing it around our Sam when we get back. They finally shut up about it, despite their lingering grins, in exchange for more songs. I pacify them with "Fifty-Four Tuns" and "The Night That Ended," and then Panem songs like "I've Got This Friend" and "Poison and Wine," before we all get about as tired as my voice. I wait until Jon and the others doze off before I give in to sleep.

Thankfully I do not get a repeat of last night's dream. Tonight, they are closer to my usual brand of restlessness.

Explosions in the old arena, which turns into flaming castle ruins. Disturbed crows and ravens and mockingjays take wing, fluttering away in a hurry. The sky, now black and speckled with stars, erupts like the Quarter Quell forcefield and rains down ash and glittering snow. I'm flying in the darkness, presumably lifted by the hovercraft, when I see a pale, faceless woman twirling in the dark and snow in Lucy Gray's rainbow dress. The colors melt off her skirt and form wriggling snakes, shooting every which way and leaving beautiful streaks in their wake.

When I open my eyes, my first thought is that I'm still dreaming, because the streaks don't go away. They're just vaguely different hues. I squint at them and try to remember the fading image in my head, comparing the colors. Raspberry red, deep blue, yellow blending into iridescent green…

No, wait, none of her dress ruffles were green, nor were any of the snake mutts in the arena. I must've been including the one she pulled out of her pocket at the reaping. But there it is, rippling across the sky to join the others in a multicolored dance. And suddenly I'm scrambling into a sitting position and fumbling with my camera as I realize what I am actually seeing.

"The northern lights," I whisper, my breath catching in my throat as excitement courses through me.

I've heard of this phenomenon before, obviously at least from the Sam McGee song, and Johanna's even mentioned seeing them in District 7, but this is my first time witnessing them for myself. I wonder if I should wake people up so they don't miss out, but then again, this is Westeros in the North and I've only been here just over a month. Who knows how often this happens? This could be the equivalent of a full moon to them.

Yes, Katniss, it's very pretty, they'll grumble. Now go back to sleep.

Beetee's probably already recalled the drone for tonight, so I activate my camera and start recording it myself. Then, after making sure the coast is clear, I get to my feet and weave around the sleeping men, reaching out to him on my devices as I head for the nearest stretch of trees.

It takes a couple of minutes for Beetee to connect, so I watch the sky and think back on tonight's nightmare. Well, maybe nightmare isn't the right word. It wasn't frightening, really, just weird enough to rouse me. And I'm glad it did because I wouldn't want to sleep through this. A tail of primrose yellow clinging to swirls of shimmering green. The green lashing like a whip at faint traces of red, before curling back to graze the soft blue. A blue that reminds me of my own reaping day dress.

I think of the dress in the dream, melting into these colors, and the woman dancing in it, dark hair flying around her. Not Lucy Gray, but someone fairer and older. My grandmother, probably. After remembering the Little Match Girl story, I must've merged them together in my mind. She adored fine clothes and colors, a bit of whimsy in our drab old district. I suspect that's why my mother's apothecary dresses are so precious to her.

She would have loved the rainbow ruffles. The outfits Cinna designed for me. The dresses made of fire. And the brilliant vision in the sky, glowing just overhead. She would have loved this.

Beetee's loving it too, or he has been for a while by the time he finally answers me. Gale noticed the lights first and started recording them before I did, but for him it's more of a distant glow on the horizon. I'm right underneath it, so Beetee is thrilled to see it from my angle. The reason he took a little while to get back to me is because Gale immediately asked to be connected to his mother, and Beetee's arranging to send the footage to her.

This makes me vaguely antsy, since if Gale's awake too, I'd like an update from him on how things are going. Beetee knows this and takes a moment to alert him. While we wait, he is only too happy to tell me more about what we're looking at.

"Aurora borealis," he says grandly. "It's the Latin term for it. Have you heard of Latin?" When I make a sound in the affirmative, he goes on. "Aurora, meaning 'dawn' or 'sunrise', after the Roman goddess of the dawn, and borealis meaning 'northern,' after Boreas, the Greek god of the north wind. Essentially, it means 'morning light coming from the north.'"

"Because the colors are like sunrise," I say, watching them. "Though I don't think I've ever seen a sunrise with any green in it. Looks more like the energy in your portal."

Beetee laughs, but goes straight to explaining magnetic fields and the atmosphere and solar particles, and doing a little raving himself over what this possibly tells him about Westeros's planet. I half-listen, half-watch in amazement as the ribbon of green continues to flicker and flare, at this point more like fire and smoke than snake.

After three more minutes, Gale connects to me. "Are you seeing this right now?" he asks.

"It's right above me," I tell him.

"Can't believe it's still going," he says, and pauses. "Did you and Peeta see anything like this during the Victory Tour? While you were in Seven, or Nine, or something?"

I wince, hugging my shadowskin around my arms. "No, we never went that far north," I say flatly.

The mention of Peeta upsets me. Not just because the memory of him has been made fresh by the story, but because I know he would've loved to paint something like this. If the northern lights are like a sunrise, I don't want to be watching them with Gale. It should be Peeta seeing this with me, not him.

Gale must hear it in my voice because he wisely switches to updating me on Shireen. There's not much to tell, really, other than she liked the sunshine song and Gale heard her singing it to herself the other night. So did Hazelle, actually, in the background when she was talking to Gale. Both mistaking each other for me on the other end, Hazelle and Shireen asked to speak to one another, so that's one of the reasons I didn't hear from them. Hazelle knows the song too. She says her grandpa Tam used to sing it to her, told her it was from District 11 – just like his stepmother Hazel, for whom she was named.

I immediately think of Rue and wonder if her mother ever sang her to sleep with that song. If she's still alive and singing it to Rue's five younger siblings. If our families have ever crossed paths before, sung to each other in the past, decades before the Meadow song in the arena. The thought chokes me up, and I fall silent and stare at the lights, following the delicate yellow wisps with my eyes as they flit around the green.

After a minute or two, Gale breaks the silence. "You know, he and your great-grandmother watched these together once."

My forehead creases in confusion. "You mean my grandma?" I ask. "Maude Ivory?"

"No, her mother," Gale insists. "See, I was talking to my mom about the lights, and she was really excited, she knew right away what I meant because he used to tell her about them." I hear his feet shuffle in the snow. "I mean, he was raised by the Covey, right? Barb's parents were his parents."

"I do remember her saying something about that," I say, trying not to sound interested. Tommy Turquoise Baird had already taken baby Tam Amber under his wing, so to speak, before he met Barb Azure's future mother, so they grew up as brother and sister. Given that Barb Azure basically raised my grandmother, you'd think our families would've remained close. But, as Gale and I both know, things don't always work out that way.

"He said they used to go north sometimes," Gale continues. "That one year, right before the Dark Days, they were up in Nine visiting family, and they saw the lights together. Said his aunt Aurora was obsessed with the northern lights because she was named after them, and she and Aunt Alice had a running joke that Hazel should change her name to something that sounded like 'ory', so the three of them could call themselves Aurora Borealis." He pauses. "You know, like how the guys were called—"

"The Brothers Baird, I know," I say, more than slightly annoyed.

Another awkward pause. "Well, I assume that since Hazel Baird was Barb's mother, one of the other two was Maude's?" he asks.

"Alice," I answer. Then I add wryly, "You know. Like the girl who went through the looking glass."

"Or the computer chip," says Gale, who possibly doesn't know. "She was from Three, you know, and Lucy's mother was from Eight. Explains the reaping dress."

It does, I realize. District 8. Textiles. Fabrics. Colors. The dress that twirled in my dreams. I gaze up at the colors that came from it and see them a little clearer. Not quite rainbow, but sunrise. Aurora, like the dawn.

Then I'm irritated again, because yes, I am aware my grandmother was born in Three. But I need to stop being told things about Lucy Gray, or soon Jon Snow and the rest of the Night's Watch will be stuck on a ship with an obsessive, relapsed, mystery-crazed lunatic. And it'll be all Gale's fault.

"Isn't District Eight a little far south for her to be named after the northern lights?" I say, just for the sake of being petty.

His tone carries the effect of a shrug. "Like I said, family in Nine," he counters, and huffs out a thoughtful scoff. "The Covey really got around, didn't they? Before the war happened, and the world closed in on them."

I breathe in deeply, not wanting to risk my voice carrying if I snap at him. "Guess so."

"Do you think it's a bad omen?" he asks suddenly.

"What is?"

"That nearly eighty years ago, our great-grandparents watched the northern lights together, just before a war happened and then most of their family got wiped out?" Gale says. "And now, here the two of us are, watching them in another world, and you're sailing to deal with some wildlings that might hate your guts and I'm going to fight in a war against men who like to see them?"

I wrinkle my nose in distaste; that was one flaying joke I could have done without. "I wouldn't put too much thought into it," I reply. "It doesn't have to mean anything."

"Well, if it does, you're not the one who needs to be worried right away," he says matter-of-factly. "It was Tam and Barb's parents who died in the war. The rest went after, when they were rounded up."

My mouth twists into a frown, and I cross my arms against my chest as it occurs to me that multiple things are bothering me here. It's like Gale's trying to use this Covey thing to tie us together again, this connection between our families, when the only thing that really holds us together is Shireen. But the more he talks to Hazelle, the more he finds out about our history, and by now he knows more than I do. And it makes me jealous. My father, long dead, was the son of the youngest Covey member who could barely remember her own parents. Meanwhile, the living granddaughter of Tam Amber is suddenly passing along memories of great-grandparents and a time before the Dark Days.

I just find it ironic that I've learned more about myself here in Westeros than I ever did in Panem. Under Paylor, the districts are united again, talking freely, discovering themselves and each other. Stitched together and healing like the shadowcat wound on my arm.

Yet, just like me, Gale is now hearing it from afar. I wonder if Hazelle would be so delighted about her son witnessing the northern lights if she knew they were hanging above a country that was still in the throes of war. A country where there are no Bairds, only Boltons, with a man being skinned alive proudly displayed on their sigil…

"I can't have you thinking like that," I say at last. "She needs you."

"Shireen?" Gale says, sounding surprised.

I shrug on instinct. "Her, your mother—" I start to say, until in the background, I hear a voice just above a whisper.

"—don't mean to interrupt," Shireen says. "Is that your mother or Katniss this time?"

"It's Katniss," he tells her. "What are you doing up?"

"Just let me talk to her," I say severely.

Gale obediently passes the devices off to Shireen, and my lips immediately transform into a smile as she greets me with excitement and starts gushing about the sky.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she breathes. "Mother won't be happy if she finds me gone, but I couldn't go back to sleep when I saw it."

I laugh, feeling my mood start to shift. My father and I watched a whole lot of sunrises for that same reason. "Hey, if the sky's awake, then we should be too," I say, quoting him.

Shireen giggles in agreement, and we talk as we watch the lights together. Growing up in Dragonstone in the south, she's only ever read about them, she never thought she'd actually get to see them. I share with her what information I retained from Beetee on aurora borealis, the Latin meaning and the magnetic field and the particles that make up the colors, and she genuinely finds it interesting. Especially the thing about the goddess of dawn and the god of the north wind.

"It looks like rainbow fire," she says softly. "Reminds me of Uncle Renly."

And she tells me about his Rainbow Guard and how the rainbow is sacred to the Faith of the Seven, which is a religion in Westeros based on seven gods, mainly worshiped in the south. Her uncle Renly supported it, and so did her family on her mother's side. But when her parents aligned themselves with the Lord of the Light, the Red Woman burned the Seven's statues, and later burned some of Stannis's bannermen who wouldn't convert.

"It's just strange to see a rainbow on fire," Shireen finishes. "It's like the Lord of Light's burning the Seven in the sky."

Both my eyebrows and my suspicions are raised. Knowing what I do now, remembering her hesitation when she last spoke of her uncle, I can only imagine what happened to Renly. But I don't want her lingering over all of this. "Looks more like a dance to me," I say.

I hear the mirth in her voice return. "A dance of dragons, in the North," she says dreamily. "I like your version better. Perhaps Aurora and Boreas are just lovers dancing together."

An awkward sort of laugh escapes me as I remember Finnick's scandalous stories of the Capitol. Going by the mythology book Plutarch sent me for my birthday, lots of Capitol citizens share their names and even their drama with ancient Greek and Roman figures. "Careful, I think one of them might be the other's kid," I warn.

"A father or mother reuniting with their child, then," Shireen says, undeterred. "That would make me want to dance, too."

I smile to myself, though her words gradually fill me with immeasurable sadness. "I hear you're closing in on Winterfell," I say, changing the subject.

"I hear you're almost to Eastwatch," she counters. "Gale says we won't be able to talk after you set sail."

"Trapped on a ship, in close quarters, with the Night's Watch breathing down my back?" I point out. "They're good men, but I don't know how they'll react if they see me talking to myself all the time."

"Why don't you explain the earpiece to them like Gale did with me?" she asks.

I laugh, thinking of their reaction to the matches. They did take it well, eventually, but flammable material is not the same as a voice emanating from a tiny speaker. "Not everyone is as understanding as you," I tell her. "But it's just for a couple of weeks, there and back. Depends how long we're at Hardhome. We can talk tomorrow, and if not, I'll check in on you as soon as I can, okay?"

"Okay," she agrees, albeit wistfully. "At least we got to see the lights together—"

Behind me, someone clears their throat. Obviously not anticipating sounds outside the earpiece, I whirl around with a gasp, only to find Jon standing there with a curious expression on his face. It briefly flickers to one of apology before intrigue takes over again.

"Is that Shireen?" he asks, taking a cautious step forward.

Shireen hears him on the other end. "Was that Jon? Is he with you?" she's saying in my ear.

"Yes," I say to both, slightly overwhelmed.

Jon comes closer, looking inquisitive yet unsure. "Do you mind if I talk to her?"

The question takes me by surprise, but since Shireen is, at the same time, requesting that I say hello for her, I hold up one finger for Jon to wait. "Why don't you tell him yourself?" I ask, and start detaching the devices.

Understandably, Jon is hesitant in handling the earpiece and microphone, so I end up having to help him with them while giving the briefest possible explanation of how this works. There's a few seconds of delay because when the earpiece goes on, it involves me touching his ear in the process, and then I accidentally graze his cheek with my thumb. So we do have this one weird moment where we both kind of pause and stare at each other, but I back off after that and Jon takes it from there.

He blinks, and a startled grin crosses his lips as soon as he hears Shireen. Greeting her, he laughs and half-seriously asks if Stannis knows she's awake this late, and I can't fight a laugh of my own because it makes him sound exactly like the older brother he is.

Rather than eavesdrop, I walk a little farther through the trees and watch the sky while they converse, breathing in the brisk night air. It feels strange not having the earpiece on my person. I try to keep it in most of the time when I'm awake, in case Beetee needs to reach me even if I can't reply right away. Without it, I'm vulnerable, almost unattainable to Beetee and therefore Panem – except for the camera, which I realize is still on. Embarrassed, I turn it off, deciding that Beetee has seen and heard enough. He may still have Gale's vantage point anyway.

The aurora goes predominantly green for a few minutes, embraced by a pale blue that's almost white. I gaze up at it, and at the silver stars in the background, finding the sight simultaneously comforting and unsettling. Rubbing my arms for warmth, I pull my cloak tighter around me and release a slow misty breath.

Then the sound of footsteps on snow alerts me to Jon's presence. I turn to him as he walks over to me with an open palm and a contrite look on his face. I'm about to panic, but one glance at the devices reveals they're still in good condition, just silent as the night.

"Sorry," he says as he holds them out to me. "She had to go to sleep."

I falter at first, then take them from him. "That's all right. Maybe I can talk to her tomorrow," I say, clicking off, and put them in my pocket for the night. "It's late. We should probably be heading back anyway."

Despite this, my eyes drift back to the sky, where the red has returned, the blue and green have deepened, and the dance between them has grown stronger. Unable to help myself, I turn back around and start staring again.

Jon gives a laugh, coming up beside me. "You sure you don't want to stay and watch a little while longer?" he asks knowingly.

A pesky fluttering picks up in my stomach. "Maybe just a little longer," I admit, sparing him a glance and a sheepish grin.

He laughs and shifts closer to me, mirroring my stance as he looks up too. The fluttering persists, not just because he's caught me, but also because of his proximity. I haven't forgotten the dream from last night, and that look we shared back there during the earpiece incident didn't do much to help things. Still, I can't say his presence is unwelcome.

In the back of my mind, I'm aware that this is something we could do at the camp. Watch the sky together. But that would come with the added worry of waking people up, having to lower our voices if we wanted to talk to each other, that feeling of being surrounded by people even if they're unconscious. Out here is more private, just the two of us, and I prefer it that way. It feels like that first night on the Wall.

"It's beautiful," I say, and not just to fill the comfortable silence that's settled between us. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

There's a lull that lasts long enough for me to remember it might be a stupid question, him being from the North and all. Then, right as I'm about to turn my head and try to gauge his reaction, he says softly, "Not quite."

I turn more fully to look at him, and our eyes meet by accident. This time it's Jon's turn to look embarrassed, averting his gaze to the lights again and clearing his throat.

"Not until I came to the Wall," he adds. "It's rarer at Winterfell. More faint. But even here, I can't say I've ever seen them this strong."

"Guess it's a good thing I woke up when I did," I say under my breath. At that moment, curiosity hits me, and I glance over at him. "So, what brings you out here?"

"I awoke. Found you missing. Gave it a few minutes, then thought it best to check on you," he says, then frowns thoughtfully as he looks my way. "Did you have bad dreams again?"

I shake my head. "Explosions. Ravens. Ash and snow. Venomous snakes in the sky. Honestly, I've had worse, it was just unnerving," I say with a sigh, and get distracted by another flourish of color. "Look at that. It really is like rainbow fire..."

The aurora twirls and dances above our heads, vanishing in some areas and coming back again. Green and red and blue flames racing across the sky while engulfing the heavens in a multicolored smoke. My thoughts drift to Cinna, to the flawless dresses this would've inspired from him. I imagine twirling for him just like the woman in my dream, glowing with the fire of the northern lights. And then I think of Peeta and his soothing words to the morphling on the beach. How he told her he'd never figured out how to paint a rainbow, never managed to capture them because they faded too quickly on the air.

Here in Westeros, on a night like this, he would have no such issue. The lights are fast and flickering but seem perfectly content to be here, as if waiting for him to come along with his brushes and paintbox. If that's the case, they will be waiting forever. Because it's just me.

Well, me and Jon, I correct myself, suddenly very aware of his presence. I should probably still be embarrassed from the other night, but I think it's fading now. Risqué dreams aside, the warmth of him standing so near provides a comfort that's impossible to ignore.

I can't help wishing for Peeta, but if anyone else is going to physically be here to experience this with me, I'm glad it's Jon…

"Is this your first time?" he asks suddenly, and my head whips around in shock. Reading my flustered reaction, his eyes widen to mirror mine as realization dawns, and he's quick to clarify with a nervous laugh. "Seeing the lights, I mean."

Oh. I face forward again with a quiet scoff, scolding my mind for going there. Of course that's what he was talking about. "How did you guess?" I say wryly.

A shrug from Jon. "Well, you mentioned them in your song," he notes.

"Sure, Twelve's north enough," I say. "But as far as the lights are concerned, I'm as southern as Sam McGee."

He gives a low chuckle. "Wildlings say anyone on this side of the Wall is a southerner. I suppose that makes me one too."

"Oh, I don't think so," I say, envying his years at Winterfell for even the rare hint of a glow like this on the horizon. "If you can see the northern lights where you're from, you're a northerner. Plain and simple."

"Oh, is that how it works?" Jon says, laughing some more.

"Yes, it's right there in the name," I say, and for emphasis I gesture to the sky. "The northern lights have spoken."

Jon shakes his head, still laughing. "Then you're still a southern girl—"

"Northeast." I bump his shoulder lightly with mine, though it doesn't make a difference and he can probably barely feel it through his furs.

"A southern girl," he insists, his tone borderline teasing. "From Panem. Who found her way to northern Westeros. You really are a long way from home."

I scoff in agreement, tempted to tell him he doesn't even know the half of it, but falter at how much I'm already potentially giving away. "Depends on what you consider home," I say instead.

As if sensing a touched nerve, he lets this hang in the air for a while before changing the subject. "Shireen says you have another name for them in Panem."

Relieved, I tell him about the aurora borealis, about the morning light that comes from the north, and even a little bit about my dream. He's skeptical about the dawn part at first, jokingly asking how far west he'd have to go to see Panem's supposed green sunrises. I laugh it off and manage to dodge the question, pointing out there's a lot more colors right now, and they're supposed to be caused by solar winds, storms from the sun, so it works. He still wants to know the Latin term for "light," but I can't help him there since I don't speak Latin. It's a dead language from a country called Rome.

Jon gives me a blank look. "Where's Rome?"

I dodge that question too. In fairness, I really do have no idea. I'm sure it sunk below the ocean like a bunch of other countries, but I can't tell him that.

Anyway, we both decide that Shireen's descriptor of rainbow fire is closer to the truth. He's amused by her theory of the Lord of Light and the Seven fighting in the sky. Thinks it's creative. Though he points out that the aurora originates from the Wall or the lands beyond, and he doesn't know much about the Lord of Light, but the Seven are nonexistent there. Apparently it's the final word in the old gods. They're everywhere, in birds and beasts, trees and streams and stones. They're the ones that have power in the North.

"All right, so what do you northerners think it means?" I ask. "I mean, do you have any legends, or superstitions, or..."

"Superstitions?" Jon asks, turning to look at me with exaggerated disbelief. "In the North?" I bite my lip but fail to suppress a snort, and he laughs. "Why do you ask?"

I raise my eyebrows meaningfully. "Gale thinks it's a bad omen," I say, trying to measure the right amount of respect for Jon's gods and sarcasm towards Gale into my tone.

Jon scoffs appreciatively, but the humor fades from his face. He turns back to the lights, his expression unreadable. "You still talk to him, then."

"Rarely," I say defensively. "More than I'd like to. But it's his earpiece, and he lets Shireen use it. It's the one way I can still talk to her. Make sure she's okay."

"You still worry about her." Jon's tone softens. "I understand." There's a long pause, then he takes in a deep, cleansing breath. "Honestly, if you asked the northerners, the lights can mean any number of things. Long winters. A coming storm. The old gods answering a prayer. Our ancestors reaching out to us. Reuniting with their ancestors and dead loved ones. Red means war, fire, and death, of course..."

"Of course, naturally," I say, nodding.

Shaking his head, he gives a small snort. "Old Nan saw something like this when she was a girl. She said when you see this much color, especially green like the forest or red as weirwood leaves, it's the old gods and the Children of the Forest reminding us that they're still out there, that their magic is still strong." He glances my way briefly with half a grin. "Then again, she's also said it means white walkers, blood magic, fire, famine, and dragons."

"Dragons?" I echo, meeting Jon's gaze with amusement. "Shireen did mention that. I believe she called it a dance of dragons in the North."

He inclines his head, as if considering. "Maybe the flying snakes in your dream weren't snakes. You did say the sky was on fire."

I give him a look. "Seriously, rainbow dragons?"

"They were said to come in many colors," he says with a completely straight face.

"The new gods, you can't imagine existing here," I say, gesturing up to the aurora. "But dragons, on the other hand…"

Jon shrugs and looks off to the west. "Well, we already have one in the North."

I realize who he's talking about, and my smile gradually falls away. Not for long, I think to myself.

As if reading my mind, three minutes later the last of the aurora's flame begins to dissipate. Yellow and green and red, slipping away one after the other, then a fleeting gray mist, until we're left with a pale ivory moon under a still and starry sky. Even a dragon's fire burns out.

We give it a minute or two, just staring up at the impossibly clear night, but it doesn't return. "And there it goes," I say with a sigh.

"Best head back, then, unless you want to see a real sunrise," Jon says, making me scoff. "We'll probably pay for this in the morning."

I cringe, feeling guilty as it hits me how much time has passed. "Sorry I kept you up so late."

He stops as he's turning to leave, studying my face. "You don't need to apologize," he says gently. "It was an honor staying up with you, my lady."

A prickling starts to pool in my cheeks. "Katniss," I press, because it seems right now I don't know how to form words except for my own name.

"Katniss," Jon corrects himself, and smiles, making the matter worse.

I'm staring at him like an idiot, at his dark eyes with the scars and his lips that are parted slightly, and all I can think of is how kissing him would make the walk back to camp horrifically tense, not to mention the ride to Eastwatch if I don't go riding back to Castle Black, but there's something about the way he says my name…

I retreat a step, stupidly afraid, and I must look like a frightened animal or something because Jon falters as well.

"I'll walk you back," he says, his voice taking on that husky rasp. The one that sends shivers through me now.

We trudge through the snow, side by side but mostly in silence, to the camp where our respective beds and furs await. I sink into the refuge of my sleeping bag and gaze up at the sky, thinking of all the sunrises I spent wrapped up in Peeta's arms. Suddenly proximity doesn't feel like enough.

I wrap myself up in my shadowskin, listening to the nearby sounds of sleep from Jon and waiting for the lights to reappear. Craving a comfort for something I vaguely recognize, an ache I've felt ever since they vanished.

A feeling of cold, unexplainable loneliness.

Chapter Text

Turns out Jon was right about the price of aurora-gazing to be paid in the morning. He has it easier, since he fell back asleep long before I did, but I swat crankily at Edd a couple of times when he tries to wake me. The men's laughter makes me begrudgingly crack my eyes open after a few seconds. By then, Edd has retreated to Jon's side. He doesn't look offended, but his brow is furrowed as he says something to Jon and gestures to his arm, which confuses me because I don't remember hitting him or anything. Jon just frowns and whispers something back, which only makes Edd send me another speculative glance.

Unnerved, I start to get up, and immediately notice that the burn scars on my arm are visible. Quickly I roll my sleeve back down and busy myself by getting my things pulled together. We should be leaving soon anyway.

On the road, I'm still yawning an hour after leaving the Torches, so I do as the brothers suggest and sing a few songs to wake myself up. I start with "Abraham's Daughter," one of my father's favorites, then try my own rendition of "The Song of the Winter Rose," which seems to please Tormund. I consider singing "Rose of Gold," since it's a long one and has energy to it, but ultimately decide against it when I go over the lyrics in my head. Probably a romantic ballad about a girl and a prospective man of the Night's Watch falling for each other on a journey is not the best song to sing, given our current circumstances. After the Sam McGee thing yesterday, I doubt the brothers would let Jon hear the end of it.

Instead, I think of Shireen, and sing "It's Always Summer Under the Sea" and then, by popular demand, "The Dornishman's Wife." That gets a lot of the men merrily joining in, though once it's over, Albett loudly calls out a request for "the Clementine song," prompting an even greater portion of them to shout, "NO!"

Laughing, I dredge through my memories for something they haven't heard, something a bit less plaguing, and settle on a very old one called "Dream a Little Dream of Me." Two or three stanzas in, I realize too late why it's coming back to me now, but the men are invested so I fix my eyes on Greenguard ahead of us and go on singing the song about fading stars and craved kisses and lingering till dawn.

At least it's ambiguous, I reassure myself. It's supposed to be about missing someone. I could be singing about Peeta. Or maybe I'm not singing about anyone and a song is a song and I'm just filling up the silence.

As if to make a point that no one's actually arguing, I even sing "Bessa the Barmaid," which is one I usually roll my eyes at because it's so raunchy, but it keeps the brothers entertained and my thoughts occupied all the way to Greenguard. Then, when we stop to rest, I have a brief moment of panic after I dismount where I'm feeling around frantically for a device that isn't there. Jon sees me patting at my ear and weapon belt and pant pockets and gives me a questioning look.

"My— I can't find my—" I trail off, flustered. I don't even know what to call it when the others are within earshot. "Did I leave it at the Torches…?"

"It's in your—" Jon starts to point, then changes his mind and gestures to his own chest. "You put it in this pocket."

Remembering, I dig into my breast pocket and sigh in relief as I pull the earpiece and microphone out. "Thanks. At least one of us was paying attention," I mutter, cradling them in my palm and activating the earpiece. I completely forgot to do that this morning, but it likely doesn't matter anyway. The Baratheon army may still be riding, and Beetee hasn't really needed to reach out to me about anything. It's usually the other way around. There's Sam and Gilly, but I told them if they couldn't contact me, I'd check in on them once we got to Eastwatch.

"I think you dropped something," Jon notes, glancing down. "Is that your pearl?"

"Pearl?" I ask, bemused as Jon crouches down in front of me. "I didn't bring the pearl—"

He retrieves something from the snow and stands up, pinching it between his fingers. "What's this?"

My throat tightens and horror sinks in my stomach as I recognize it. A tiny capsule in a distinct shade of purple. My nightlock pill, my little dose of death, and Jon Snow is currently holding it as Finnick Odair would a sugar cube. Gasping, I swipe it from him before he can grow Finnick's sense of humor and pop it in his mouth.

"It's nothing," I say, dusting off the snow and stuffing it in the sleeve pocket of my Mockingjay suit where it belongs. I'm so used to hiding it in my other clothes that I put it in my breast pocket out of habit. When I glance back up, Jon looks reasonably stunned, his eyebrows raised in question. I guess my reaction does warrant an explanation, so I mumble, "It's just some… medicine I brought with me from Panem."

Unfortunately, we both seem to recall at the same time when I've said this before. Jon's forehead wrinkles at the memory. "Is that what you offered to Mance, that day in his cell?" he asks. I manage a small sound of confirmation and idly turn the earpiece in my palm, hoping that'll be the end of it. But Jon isn't deterred. "What's it for?"

With a muted sigh, I put my microphone and activated earpiece back in my pocket, sensing I won't be using them anyway. "For the pain," I say simply. There, that should be vague enough.

When I meet Jon's eyes, they've softened considerably. "Do your burns still hurt you?" he asks in a low whisper.

"Not really," I say, shaking my head. "Not anymore. Just a little tender sometimes. The medicine's for more extreme circumstances." I turn to my horse to unzip the pack on my saddle. "Look, if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it. It's kind of personal."

"I understand," Jon says, but in my peripheral vision, I can see he's just as confused as he sounds.

Feeling guilty, I glance back at him. "Thank you. For noticing when it fell. I can't really afford to lose it."

"But you were going to give it to Mance," Jon notes.

"I thought he needed it more than I did," I say, searching around in my pack for food. "He disagreed. For some stupid, noble reason."

Jon scoffs in understanding, but when I sneak a glimpse over my shoulder at him, I can tell by his face that he wants to ask more questions. Behind him, Tormund is observing us from not that far away. I catch his eye but he barely wavers in his staring, which makes me wonder what he's overheard. Desperate for a subject change, I shoot Jon a grin. "Remember the other thing you thought I'd offered him?"

The diversion has its intended effect. Blushing, Jon lowers his gaze and shakes his head with a rueful laugh. When he lifts his eyes again, there's a mischievous sparkle amongst the gray. "He'd be less likely to turn that down," he says with a grin of his own.

I gasp, choking on my own peal of laughter. "Wow," I say, wide-eyed, after dragging my hand from my mouth. "Jon—!"

Jon laughs some more and raises his eyebrows, with a slight head tilt to go with his shrug. "He wasn't a man of the Watch anymore. He was a wildling," he says matter-of-factly. "He'd already broken his vows."

"So have you," I quip, and then instantly wish I hadn't.

The humor slides off his face, and a shadow of something more serious replaces it. His eyes darken with memory as they search mine. "Yes I have," he says softly.

My grin fades and I look away, wondering if maybe we should have just kept talking about my so-called medicine. I'm half-tempted to take it now.

Mercifully, Jon clears his throat and mutters some excuse to go talk to some of his brothers, but it's clear after we depart that I've made it weird between us. He still offers me a hand when I get back on my horse, there's just a subtle swiftness about it. Furtive eye averting like he did yesterday, or during the few days after his encounter with Melisandre in the commander's quarters. But as Lord Commander, he rides at the front of the group, and I'm perfectly content to impose some space as I devote my interest to the landscape.

A couple of hours in, the men remember I'm back there and tease me about my silence. The remaining hours of our journey could use some songs, though they agree they would be happy to serenade me with Sam McGee. In turn, I jokingly threaten them with "Oh my Darling, Clementine" since we're getting so close to the ocean. Halder and Jeren argue that "Come Away to the Water" would be more fitting, but Tormund speaks up asking when's the last time I sang "The Hanging Tree."

The Night's Watch men chime in with their agreement, and he does make a good point, so I start singing Lucy Gray's version. In a funny sort of way, her arrangement – the original – feels more suited to this occasion. The few times I've sung it in the past year, I do it soft and sweet like my father used to, but always grim and mournful with an edge of defiance. Perfect for the lake in District 12, or my room in the Training Center, or the Haunted Forest, or Mance's cell. The way Lucy Gray sings it in the footage is more hopeful. Still haunting, of course, but wistful and romantic and happy like she can just taste her freedom. There's a bounce to the melody that goes well with riding a horse, and my voice gets stronger like hers as I begin to smell the salt of the sea in the air.

It's another two hours or so before our destination comes into view, and we're losing light as nightfall fast approaches, but I still turn on my camera as hastily and inconspicuously as I can. What I'm seeing is not abandoned ruins, but a well-kept fortress at the easternmost part of the Wall. The second of three castles that still have men to guard it.

"There it is," Jon says when I ride up alongside him. "Eastwatch-by-the-Sea."

My breath catches at the sight. I remember the beach on District 4, and while it was not nearly as freezing as it is here, it also didn't have a magnificent stone castle built on its shore. Relentless, bone-chilling winds carry across the sea, creating large, tumbling waves that batter against the rocks and spill onto the sand. I heard the roar of the sea before I saw it, felt the staggering breeze as it rolled in, but the vision of Eastwatch makes it worth bundling up tighter in my shadowskin.

It gets more beautiful the closer we come. Jutting out beyond the shore, the Wall comes to an end in the Bay of Seals, where large ships are anchored in the distance waiting for us.

By the time we reach Eastwatch, twilight has fallen, so we're going to be staying here overnight. I take Jon's hand and he helps me down from my horse, but I'm distracted as I gaze off toward shore because the weirdest feeling has swept over me. It's not the frigid cold, as striking as it is, but something draws me away from my horse toward the black sand and the crashing waves. A funny pins-and-needles sensation that raises the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck.

"That's strange," I say, mostly to myself.

"What is?" Edd asks, appearing at my side. He squints toward the ships for a moment before looking back to me.

I'm embarrassed that he's heard, because I'm not quite sure how to describe this sensation. The first word that comes to mind is unease, but not in a bad way. It feels like being on the roof of the Training Center at night, or sleeping in the cave in this world, or sitting by the fire in the concrete house by the lake.

"There's something about this place…" I say, trailing off. "I don't want to say it's familiar. I know I've never been here before, I just…" My words fail again, lost to the hypnotic roll of the tides, which frustrates me to no end. "It feels eerie somehow. Haunted but not haunted. Like it reminds me of something."

A few pairs of footsteps come up from behind, with Jon showing up on my other side. "Maybe it reminds you of that song Shireen likes?" he asks, and gestures to the windblown shore. "Where the north wind meets the sea…?"

I don't think that's it, but I humor him anyway. "Well, then where's the river full of memory?"

Jon contemplates this for a moment, but it's Edd who steps forward and points in the direction of the Wall. "There's your river," he says.

Tormund harrumphs, half-intrigued, half-skeptical. "A river of ice."

"And in its song, all magic flows," Edd says dryly, then shifts his bag on his arm as he loses interest and turns back to the horses.

I hear Jon chuckle at Edd, but I'm not so amused. My eyes trail from the waters lashing at the Wall and shoreline, to the black sand and gravel of the beach, as if searching my surroundings for a better answer.

"It was built with magic. And it's thousands of years old," says Jon. "Almost makes you wonder if that's the true meaning behind the song. Perhaps the singer visited Westeros, saw the Wall and thought of it as a sort of magical frozen river."

For some reason, this rubs me the wrong way. "That's impossible," I protest, wrinkling my brow. "I'm the first person from Panem who's ever been to Westeros. And no one from Westeros has ever been to Panem."

Jon gives a light laugh, barely heard over the breaking waves. "How do you know?"

The question, although so innocently posed, still makes me bristle. A perfectly good argument rises in my throat but gets stuck there when I realize I can't even use it, which leaves me feeling even more defensive. "I just do," I say shortly.

The low buzz of conversation behind us dies down. I'm already cringing at how it sounded. I can feel the men's eyes on me, most of all Jon's, and when I turn to him, he looks just as thrown as he did when I snatched the nightlock pill from his hand. This has not been a good day for us. And if I keep it up, it's going to be a long week at sea.

"Sorry," I mutter. "It's just… wouldn't Panem and Westeros have heard of each other by now? If there had been anyone else before me?"

Jon thinks about it, then shrugs. "Not if they were as mysterious as you," he says, too close to my ear. I shiver a little, but he doesn't notice since he's walking back to the horses with the rest of the group.

As I start to go after them, I get in one more look at the shore, the spray of the waves on the rocks, the edge of the Wall. The answer Jon and Edd gave doesn't satisfy me. Some of the lyrics fit well enough that it's an interesting connection, but I know it's just a coincidence. Panem has associated water with magic in the past too, that's a multi-universal thing for sure, and certainly the centuries-old song must be about some other mystical river up north. Or in any of our world's ancestral countries, really, but probably after the disasters it was swallowed up a long time ago.

I'm sure that the Wall, in its own right, is a river full of memory. If you want to get weirdly poetic about it. But it's not the one from the song. And it's not what's giving me this prickling feeling right now.

"Mockingjay!" Tormund calls from a distance, a booming voice that gives me a much-needed jolt. Shaking my head, I turn away from the restless waters and follow the men up to the castle.

Chapter Text

The commander of Eastwatch, Cotter Pyke, is gruff and unpleasant, but in more of a Haymitch sort of way whereas based on stories I was expecting another Thorne. While he's not thrilled with Jon for bringing a wildling and a girl, he's mostly dismissive toward Tormund and me, though he spends a couple of minutes making jabs here and there after he's received us.

"So it's true," the old man hoots as he's leading us through the halls. "Castle Black has its own little songbird. Brought her along for the journey, did you… Are you going to make her sing tonight, Lord Snow?"

Tormund snorts for some reason, and Jon tenses in front of me. "What, at dinner?" he asks after a moment. "Only if it pleases her. It's been a long day; I think we all just need to rest."

Cotter laughs and sneers something else I barely hear, but I decide to tune him out, and eventually we're shown to our rooms. On the way, relieved to be rid of Cotter, I think of the Nightfort and make the mistake of asking the Eastwatch men escorting me, half-seriously, if this place is haunted.

"No, but the room you'll be staying in is," one of them says cheerfully.

"They say that late at night, you can hear a baby crying," a second chimes in without hesitation.

"I thought it was a woman sobbing," says the first.

"I thought it was both!" counters a third.

The first two shamelessly get to bickering about the ghost story that I half-suspect they made up on the spot to terrorize me. It carries down the hall to said room, where I roll my eyes as the third brother ends up being the one to open the door while the other two keep adding in and arguing over details in the background. Blood and lullabies and a body never found. The joke's on them, I think they've gotten so invested that they don't even notice I'm partially ignoring them.

Except when they leave, and the door closes behind them, I get that weird feeling again as I'm setting my things down on the bed. I go to the window and it's got a remarkable view of the sea at night, so maybe that has something to do with it. I'm not about to fall for the men's dumb ghost story. A woman's ghost I would have believed, since they have hosted women in the past, but they lost me at the crying baby. Unless Gilly and Baby Sam's situation isn't as unheard of in the Night's Watch as I thought…

Gilly. That reminds me. I need to reach out to her and Sam soon, let them know we're at Eastwatch and see how things are going at Castle Black without us. I start to dig out my devices, then think better of it, since it's close to supper for them too and I don't know for sure if they can be disturbed right now. It might be wiser to try to connect later tonight, when they're more likely to be somewhere private like the library or the maester's quarters.

After making sure the coast is clear around my room, I contact Beetee instead and ask him if the footage came in all right. His cameras are pretty good quality, even when they're passing information between worlds, but I know he's said there have been times where it's just a little grainy. The dim lighting of twilight probably wouldn't have helped.

"No, no, it's excellent," Beetee assures me. "Now that you mention it, the connection at Eastwatch is surprisingly strong. You usually only come in clear like this when you're at the weirwood tree or Castle Black. Places you've been before, or stayed at for a period of time."

"But I haven't been here before," I say, frowning as I pace around the edge of the bed. My eyes drift toward the window again, where the wind and the sea are waging war just outside, and suddenly it's as if I'm hiding inside the concrete house back in 12, staring out at the waves on the lake as I wait out a summer storm. There goes that unsettling feeling again. "Beetee, isn't there a word for this? Being in a place that feels… weird? I don't know, familiar in an unfamiliar way? It's like it's comforting but strange at the same time. It's disorienting."

Beetee muses on the other end for a few seconds. "One term that comes to mind is déjà vu," he says. "An illusion of memory, the phenomenon of feeling like you've already experienced something before." I make a noncommittal noise in response. "But the word I think you're looking for is liminality. Or a liminal space."

"Liminal space?" I echo. That sounds right. My father used it once when I woke up from a nightmare at three o'clock in the morning and the energy in the house felt… pretty much exactly like this. An in-between period of sorts.

"Essentially it's like a threshold," Beetee explains. "A middle space, or a state of transition. People often get the same disoriented feeling of unreality in train stations, corridors, areas where you are meant to cross from one place to another. It makes sense that seeing the ocean would evoke this feeling in you, especially at nightfall. The transition from day to night."

"Well, what about this room?" I press. His explanation is solid, but I'm not entirely convinced.

"It's unfamiliar, and you're only staying there for the time being," Beetee says easily. "You might have felt the same way in the Training Center, or your room on the train. Or perhaps your room at Castle Black, unless you've gotten used to it by now."

The thing about the Training Center settles it for me, but the last part makes me blink. The implication – or reminder – that my situation at Castle Black may be temporary. Does it still feel that way to me?

It's been a month, I've known my way around the castle for a while now, and my room… well, it's my room. Even though up until the end of July, the one at the house in Victor's Village was my room. Then again, two years ago, it was the one in our house at the Seam. Things change.

I never cared for my new house, anyway. Back when we moved in, it was the Seam room I missed, the one I shared with Prim, simple yet sufficient. But that's lost to me now, burnt to ashes. The closest thing I've got to it is my room at Castle Black and I don't even know how long that's going to last.

In an effort to ward off these thoughts, I change the subject to anything else I can think of. The drone. Panem. Shireen and Gale. He doesn't have much to tell about the drone other than its continued route southwest from the great tundra. Lucy Gray is still Panem's hottest topic, Beetee admits, but he thinks I'd be interested to know that under a piece of What happened to Lucy Gray? graffiti, someone recently added What happened to Katniss Everdeen? Meanwhile, in Westeros, the Baratheon army should be making camp near Winterfell by midday tomorrow. Footage from Gale today featured Shireen and several of her father's men singing some Panem songs.

"I'm almost tempted to ask you to send me that footage," I tell him, smiling at the prospect of hearing Shireen sing.

Beetee laughs. "It would have to be discreet, but just say the word and it could be waiting for you on the beach," he promises.

Maybe I'll hold off. I didn't bring my projector with me, so I would have to wait to play it until we get back. But I do try to connect to Gale so I can hear Shireen's voice, talk to her tonight while I can.

He doesn't respond, which leaves me feeling restless. And cold. And honestly, a little grubby. After days of riding with the Night's Watch, bundled in layers, I'm sure I smell like horse and sweat and campfire smoke. Usually at Castle Black, I wash up at the lake or use a basin, avoiding the castle's bathing area when I can to limit the chances of anyone seeing me. But here at Eastwatch, possibly the coldest part of the Wall, what I need is a hot bath. I've never craved one more.

A fleeting temptation to make use of the ones here drives me to the door, but before I reach the knob, intuition pulls me back. There's no way they aren't occupied right now. And even if they were available, I wouldn't be able to guarantee my privacy.

Instead, another idea occurs to me. On a whim, I reach out again. "Beetee, as long as Gale's here, if I left I could come back, right?" I say.

"Correct, he's like a bookmark," Beetee replies.

I mull this over for a second, before asking: "Can I use your shower?"

Amused, Beetee generously agrees, but asks if I have a change of clothes with me. I'm about to go to the effort of digging through my pack when I have a sudden thought and snoop around the room instead. Sure enough, when I look in a dusty wooden chest, there are fine clothes hidden away inside. Well, fine by Westeros standards, as far as I know, and they smell a century old, but most are warm and black and look like they'd fit me. One's more of a nightgown, and the skirt looks too summery, so I pull out a shirt and trousers instead, briefly making a face at the crumpled linen with the dried, faded blood on it lying at the bottom of the chest. Closing the lid, I get ready for Beetee to summon me back.

After a couple minutes of deliberating if I can be safely recalled from inside this room or underneath a roof – he's always delivered people and parachutes to places that are out in the open, and there's some uncertainty over whether it will return me to the same spot – we concede it's worth testing the recall at least, but he has me bring my shadowskin in case when I come back it drops me off outside. I shudder at the thought of missing my room and falling through the air but decide to trust him, and the next thing I know, I'm frozen in place like I'm about to be pulled into a Capitol hovercraft. That seafoam sensation engulfs me again, cold pinpricks raising the hair on my neck and arms before overtaking my whole body, and the world goes bright, then white, then rippling with a haze of color.

The color fades to gray, my vision clears, and within an eyeblink, I'm facing Beetee's lab, standing behind the protective glass of the portal, which raises for me in an instant.

"Welcome back," he says with a smile.

"Thanks," I say, still in disbelief as I step off the plate and into his lab. The tingling numbness falls away just like that, and it's as if I've been dropped into a pot of soup. "Wow, it really is late August here, isn't it?"

Beetee laughs as I shrug off my shadowskin and fold it over my arm. "I have air conditioning down here," he counters. "But I can understand why you would still feel the difference."

He directs me to the shower, which is a lot closer to the one in the Training Center than the one I have at home. The panel with the multiple options for scents and oils and precise water temperatures. Being a victor from the technology district, he either used his winnings to have it installed or he actually designed it himself, which wouldn't surprise me. I shed my Mockingjay uniform, then step into the shower and program in a pleasing cycle, releasing a blissful sigh as warm water greets me like a welcome summer rain. The temperature increase is gradual, per Beetee's suggestion, so as not to shock my system. As it heats up, I lather and rinse with various soaps and shampoos and breathe in the sweet-smelling steam. The pool in the cave was nice, but you can't get luxury like this in Westeros.

I've started to sing "Rose of Gold," and I'm thinking to myself that it must be the first song from Westeros ever sung in Panem – unless Beetee has secretly crooned a few to himself now and then – when the thought slows me. My voice dies down until all I can hear is the hot running water pattering down around my feet. Water that's coming from Panem.

Only now does the reality of the situation sink in. I am in Panem, taking a shower, literally a world apart from Jon and the rest of them and he doesn't even know. He's in Westeros, somewhere in Eastwatch, possibly laughing with his brothers or discussing provisions and arranging things with Cotter so we can set sail in the morning. Completely unaware that I'm no longer on the same continent as him, or even the same planet. If I lose track of time, he could come to my room and fetch me for supper – and find not a single living soul inside.

It's surreal at first, the distance between us, like he's merely on the other side of the country but also practically in another Victor's Village house and I can just go through a door and walk across the road to him. Then a sting of terror blooms in my chest and locks in my throat. An irrational fear that Beetee will talk to Gale while I'm in here and let slip that I'm back and Gale will come back too, slipping from the pages of Westeros like the good-for-nothing bookmark he is…!

I manage to calm myself by remembering that Gale can't come back on his own, he'd need Beetee to let him through. And Beetee wouldn't do that. At least, I hope he wouldn't. If not for my sake, surely he'd prefer to hold on to this world for research purposes.

Satisfied that I can rely on Beetee’s curiosity, I enjoy the last few minutes of my shower. But the surrealness stays the same, especially when I step out onto the mat that blow-dries me off with heaters. Beetee even has the box that blows a current through your scalp and untangles and dries hair instantly. As it makes short work of turning my snarls into silk, I can’t help wondering why he has it installed. Then I remember this is just his workshop, and the house could’ve belonged to a previous victor, killed in the war if not already long dead. Maybe it belonged to his mentor, and he works here to honor her memory. The thought saddens me, but I’m glad he has it. Saves me time that the Eastwatch baths wouldn’t.

I change into my spare clothes, then take the devices and nightlock pill out of the Mockingjay suit's pockets and let Beetee graciously put it through another gadget for laundry. While that's running, I go outside onto the front steps and stare up at a sky I haven't seen in weeks.

Crickets are chirping. The air smells like a summer night. Bright stars shine exactly where I've always known them to be, and a crescent moon appears from behind a moving wisp of cloud. Across the nation, under this very moon, people are wondering where I've gone.

Well, here I am. Like a ghost coming back to the place of my death, passing through on a whim. The pleasant breeze that makes my hair flutter is my only witness. One blink and you'll miss me.

"I shouldn't be able to do this," I say to myself with a little laugh. Then I turn around and head back in.

Beetee hands me my shadowskin I'd left draped on a chair and gives me my compressed Mockingjay suit in a bag, along with a chip of the Shireen singing footage since I'm here and it saves him the trouble of a parachute. I try to turn it down, because it's so small and I don't know if I can protect it and I'd hate to lose it during my travels, but Beetee shakes his head and gladly slips it and the nightlock pill into the suit's sleeve pocket for safekeeping while I reattach my devices. Then he returns to his computer and gets the portal program started with a flourish.

I glance over at his screen, which shows an unfinished map of northern Westeros with various shades of green. Close to the center, there's a pulsing dot labeled "G." He taps and drags at the screen, zooming further in on a horizontal stretch that must be the Wall. The light green spot in the middle must be Castle Black. To the right, Eastwatch is eclipsed by a patch of golden yellow. A few clicks and it's taken up the entire screen, showing several flecks of deeper orange. This must be what he meant when he said the connection was strong. Finally, he gives me the go-ahead, and I approach the portal as it comes to life with color.

"Did you make the metal plate bigger?" I ask, hesitating right in front of it.

"Gale had us adjust it so that the two of you could be summoned at the same time," says Beetee. "Obviously you could have come back alone, but this would've been the only thing he'd agree to. You and him leaving simultaneously by making physical contact somehow."

I scoff. "Because he knew I'd let him leave first and then just not go. And if he waited for me to go first, we wouldn't leave at all."

"Little does he know," Beetee says with a laugh, nodding to me.

The irony brings a half-smile to my lips. "I don't think I'll make a habit of it," I say.

After deliberating over the odds of being sent back to the exact spot of my recall point, and Beetee jokingly suggesting we send me through with a silver parachute, I take a deep breath and step into the energy. Beetee's lab and District 3 and Panem fade away, overwhelmed by the ocean of colorful matter. The pins-and-needles feeling comes back again in full force and everything looks like the patterns and lights that flash across your vision when you rub your eyes too hard.

Then my body jolts and the temperature drops, leaving me breathless. Fully expecting to fall through the sky and hit the waves, I clutch at my shadowskin, close my eyes, and brace for impact. The world opens up and the surface beneath my feet is unsteady, making my eyes fly open as I topple forward. Flinging my arms out to balance myself, I let out a cry as my legs give out underneath me and I land awkwardly in a sitting position on the bed. I'd start cracking up if I weren't so stunned. There's a sudden revelation I've had from my return…

Not two seconds later, Beetee contacts me. No crackling in the earpiece, just the static beneath my skin. "Katniss? Did you get back all right?"

"Yeah, I'm here," I say. "And I just realized what else that weird feeling reminds me of. It's like going through the portal. Only in the portal, it feels a lot stronger."

He makes a sound of pleasant comprehension. "As it should. It's another liminal space," he says. "A more straightforward example of it, in fact. The threshold between two worlds."

"Then, do you think…" I struggle on how to word it. "I mean, could that be why the connection here is so good? Because of the liminality thing?"

"It's possible," Beetee replies, though he sounds amused. "But if that were the case, then you'd be crystal clear in every hallway and every staircase and every temporary bedroom across Westeros."

We take a couple of minutes to laugh over the hypothetical expressions on the Night's Watch brothers' faces if I had materialized in the middle of the dining hall just in time for supper, or even the bathing area in a horrifically ironic twist. I let him know about what happened when I did reappear, and he laughs about that too. Out of curiosity, I ask if this means he can send parachutes directly into my room. He's not sure, since Eastwatch could be a fluke. We could test it when I get back to Castle Black, as long as I'm comfortable with the risk. But it would mean no more having to go beyond the Wall.

I like going beyond the Wall, so I decide against it. The thought of receiving parachutes directly into my room feels too convenient, just like the shower. A comfort I might request too frequently if given easy access to it.

"I think I rely on you too much as it is," I admit.

He tut-tuts the thought. "Nonsense. Considering that dragging you into this experiment was my idea, I'm happy to help you with anything you need."

I didn't need the shower, I almost say. There's a basin of water in my room, a bathing area I might have braved, and if I was crazy enough, an ice-cold ocean just outside. A shower and footage and even hot chocolate – those are things I can do without.

"And I am grateful," I tell him. "But even so, it's probably a good thing I'm going to be on a ship for over a week. Good excuse for you to start focusing more on Gale and Shireen, at least until then. With them being so close to Winterfell, to the Boltons…"

Beetee finishes the thought for me: "They'll need me more than you do."

About half an hour later, I'm sitting in the dining hall, surrounded mostly by my Castle Black traveling companions, distracted by my thoughts but joining in on laughter here and there. I'm just glad they've gotten past the subject of my appearance. As soon as I joined them for supper, the brothers had stared at me like they didn't even recognize me, the way my mother used to when I'd come home from the lake totally clean, except not as exaggerated. I almost panicked on the spot, thinking Beetee had sent me to a universe where we'd never met, until Edd said, "All right, who are you, and what have you done with Katniss Everdeen?"

Many of the brothers had laughed, making me breathe a little easier. But Jon had voiced his concerns about me using the baths here, and I had to assure him – repeatedly and vaguely – that I wasn't seen and nobody bothered me. Before he could press further, sitting across from me, Halder had interrupted him to ask with all due respect a question he had always wondered and simply had to know: "How the fuck do women always smell so good?"

It turned out I didn't even have to answer, because soon his brothers were making fun of him for his own hygiene habits and a lot of the attention shifted off of me. But Jon kept stealing odd glances at me for the first ten minutes, which made me nervously smooth my conspicuously silky hair and brush most of it to the side, wishing I'd had time to put it in my trademark braid. I think that's the last shower I'll be taking for a while, unless I find a good waterfall like the one in the cave.

Since then, the conversation has switched to Hardhome, the Bay of Seals and the Shivering Sea, and getting to the ships in the morning. They've started talking about how treacherous the waters can be during this time of year, how I should anticipate some severe storms and us having to navigate rocks and even icebergs. Unfazed, I make what I expected to be an offhanded comment about how at least I know my first time on a ship will be interesting. At this, some of the men pause and stare at me in confusion, putting me on alert.

"Your first time on a ship? What do you mean?" Jon asks, his eyes crinkling with more puzzlement than humor.

I try to hide my defensiveness with a laugh. "What do you mean, what do I mean? You know travel was forbidden in Panem up until recently."

"Yes, up until recently, but after that. Surely, you've been on a ship before. I mean…" Jon furrows his brow, then chuckles at me. "How else did you get to Westeros?"

I feel the grin vanish completely from my lips as realization hits. He's right, I've said something stupid. Naturally the only solution is to blurt out something even stupider. "I swam, of course," I say, briefly dropping my attention to my dinner. "Don't tell me you missed the mermaid tail."

Even Edd snorts, with a ripple of laughter going around the table from the rest of the men. Only Jon remains silent until the snickers die down, before giving a small scoff that makes me look up. "Are you seriously not going to give us a real answer?" he asks, with a laugh that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Tensing up, I take another bite of food and let silence linger for a few seconds as I rack my brains for a lighthearted response. "I thought it didn't matter where I'm from or how I got here," I say at last. "Nothing wrong with being a little mysterious."

Jon laughs again, albeit hollowly. "Well, there's mysterious and then there's mis…leading," he says, and falters as he gives me a look.

The brothers go quiet, just as they did outside earlier, save for a handful who laughingly let out low, scandalized hoots. One of them whispers something about a lover's quarrel, which I pretend I didn't just hear. My eyes are fixed on Jon's as I carefully arrange the muscles in my face into my usual indifferent mask. Trying to hide the fact that he has hit me where it hurts.

"There was an ocean," I say, thinking of the colorful matter in the portal. "I crossed it. But not with a ship, with a different vessel." Lowering my voice, I return my attention to my plate, not wanting Jon to read a lie in my gaze when I say this last part. "As I told Maester Aemon, it's a bit hazy."

He doesn't immediately have a response for that, but there's still a very real risk of follow-up questions. Mumbling a believable excuse about needing to catch up on sleep, I get up from the table and walk out of the dining hall. I don't know if Jon tries to stop me or something, but he must not leave the table because I make the rest of the trek through the castle alone.

Back in my room, I'm pacing and chewing my nails, trying to get the image of Jon's wary expression out of my head. I hate it when he distrusts me, at least for the wrong reasons. But I can't blame him for this one. Under normal circumstances, what I said wouldn't make any sense. How can I be from a different continent without having been on a ship before? Unless, being the Mockingjay, I sprouted wings and flew here. Another joke that I doubt would have gone over well with him.

These aren't normal circumstances, though, and I wasn't lying. At least, not about this. But I'd better either work on watching what I say – cue Haymitch, back in Panem, wondering why he's suddenly laughing so hard – or get used to confusing moments like these. Because they're going to keep happening until I tell him everything.

I'm just not sure how to go about doing that. Hey, Jon, remember when I snapped at you earlier? About knowing that no one else has traveled between Panem and Westeros before? Yeah, well, my friend Beetee recently invented a world-traveling portal and I was the first to test it out. That's how I know. Anyway, now you know. You can go back to focusing on Hardhome now.

Unlikely. Forget storms and icebergs – that would make for a stressful sea voyage.

I remember how he laughed when I insisted that I knew better, how he cast doubt where he shouldn't have when he had no right to, and that burns me up inside. But I don't want to be angry at him, not just because it's not his fault that he doesn't know, but because it's riling me up in some sort of way, filling me with a frustrated energy that I don't even know what to do with besides pace or fall on my bed and kick restlessly like a child. And because when I close my eyes, I can see that confused, doubtful little grin spread across his lips and it just makes me want to…

Stuffing a pillow over my face, I muffle a long, pathetic groan.

After giving myself ten minutes to rest and calm down, a yearning for the comfort of those in Westeros who already do know my secret overcomes my patience. I adjust my earpiece and reach out to one of the spares that Sam and Gilly have in their possession, quickly cheering up when Gilly picks up. I hear Little Sam cooing on the other end, which makes me think it's the maester's quarters, but for the most part it's as quiet as the library.

Pleased to hear my voice, she asks about Eastwatch, and I sit up in bed and describe the view out my window. Even through my earpiece, she can hear the thrashing of the waves in the distance. The sea and starlit sky look even more beautiful than the Capitol from way up here. Gilly admits she wishes she could see it, sounding kind of weary and wistful, and it occurs to me that before fleeing to Castle Black, she's only ever known Craster's Keep. Her very own District 12.

I promise to try to show her the footage sometime, then scoot off the bed to go stand at the window. Remembering another breathtaking vision that probably appeared right above her head, my mood perks up and I fire off a few things at her at once. Asking how things are at Castle Black, if Buttercup's been a handful, if Thorne or the rest of the men still there are giving her and Sam any trouble. I lightheartedly give fair warning to pass along that that the men here have learned a new song that rhymes with Sam Tarly so they may be insufferable about it when we get back, which makes her laugh. She wants to hear it, but I'm laughing too as I assure her it would get stuck in her brain.

I'm still grinning as I ask if Aemon's health has improved at all, and if she and Sam were awake last night, did they see the lights? And there's a moment of hesitation this time before Gilly answers, and that's when she tells me: "Actually, Katniss, Maester Aemon died last night."

My heart does something akin to a slowed-down dream fall as her words register in my mind. I know Sam said he didn't have a week, but it still feels like I've missed a step while walking down the stairs.

"Oh," I say softly. "I'm sorry, I didn't..."

"I know," she says. "We would have told you earlier, but we weren't sure if it was a good time. They burnt his body just this morning. Sam's only just resting now. I couldn't get him to leave his side all night."

Poor Sam. As Maester Aemon's steward, he probably spent more time with him than anyone else. In the library or the ravenry or the maester's quarters, tending to him or reading raven scrolls. By the time I get back, probably he will have taken over most if not all of Aemon's duties, but now those places are going to feel very empty.

I frown slightly. This hurts a lot more than I expected it to, and I don't quite understand why. I thought I'd seen it coming from the beginning, thought I'd braced myself for it since the second night at Castle Black when he mentioned feeling ill. To think, just a few days ago I was in the maester's quarters, singing a final song to him, as I am apparently wont to do with doomed or dying men at Castle Black. But he seemed fine – lively, in fact – especially when he spoke of this world's Lucy. The one from seventy or eighty years ago, whom he apparently knew well.

That bubble of tension builds up in my chest again. Despite everything I know to be true about our separate worlds, Jon has sown seeds of doubt in my head. I told myself I would let the mystery die with Aemon, but now this world has called my bluff. I wonder if that's what's upsetting me so… I have lost my only lead.

"Did he say much of anything towards the end?" I can't help but ask. "Like, maybe about Lucy Gr—I mean, Lucy Flowers, or Lucy Snow?"

"Yes, he mentioned her," Gilly says. "And some things about eggs, too."

"Eggs?" I blink, then remember. "Oh, Egg. Aegon."

"Right," Gilly says uncertainly. "It wasn't always clear. He was delirious a lot. He thought you were still here. Wanted you to sing 'Rose of Gold' for him. I think he missed you."

My breath catches sharply in the back of my throat. One hand flies up to cover my mouth, and a flood of shame weighs me down so heavily that I need to go and sit on the edge of the bed. For some reason, though we said our goodbyes, I had not put much thought into being missed. Of being thought of, or merely existing in his mind when I'm gone. Like I am someone he… like I was someone he cared for.

Gilly's going on about how he said he hadn't heard anyone sing the song so beautifully in almost eighty years and how it was Lucy's favorite, but all I can do is swallow my guilt past the lump that has formed in my throat. Here I am, getting the news that Aemon has just died, and one of my first concerns – one of my first selfish thoughts on why this could possibly affect me – was that he couldn't help me solve the mystery of Lucy fucking Gray.

Never mind that this is the first person I've grown close to that I've lost in the past nine months. The first in a long time taken not by tragedy or war or the Games, but by natural causes, simply slipping through life's fingers. It's been seven years since my grandmother died, but you'd think I would remember what that felt like.

Then Gilly tells me Buttercup stayed with him too, these past few days, and even though she said that he made him happy, I find myself rolling my eyes. Stupid creepy cat. I've heard they can sense death. Amidst the rolling, a tear slips out, which stuns me as I wipe it away.

We talk a while longer, about Little Sam and how Shireen's doing since I mentioned I was able to get hold of her, but I think she can tell from my voice that I'm shaken by the news. So she lets me go, with a firm Gilly-like recommendation that I get some sleep if I really was up as late as Sam last night watching those lights. I warn her that I won't be able to reach out again when I'm on the ship, but again she insists on the sleep suggestion. But then she throws in, before she says goodnight, that she and Sam will miss me until then.

I echo the goodnight, but I'm overwhelmed as I slowly click the earpiece off. There's that word again. She'll miss me, she says, from just over a hundred miles away. More when we get to Hardhome. I didn't even bring up the fact that I was in Panem tonight. An entire world away. If anything had gone wrong—

My heart folds in on itself with anxiety, just as it did in District 3, even though the danger is long past. It comes again – the terrible, paralyzing thought that if Gale found out I was back in Panem he would come back too and make me lose my place in that world possibly forever and I would never see Westeros or any of the people in it again all because I wanted a shower.

Maybe he wouldn't do that to me, and neither would Beetee, but it's the risk that I took. What I was risking, and what I was risking it for. The people I would lose. Real people, who would honestly miss me. And I would miss them back...

A knock startles me, and I look up with a shuddering gasp. It's a knock I recognize. Sucking in a breath, I get up from the bed, wiping at my eyes on my way to the door. I hesitate at first, then open it to find Jon waiting just outside, an unreadable expression on his face.

Whatever I saw in his eyes goes away in a heartbeat when he takes me in. "Are you all right?" he asks, because apparently I'm not as good at masking my emotions as I think I am. Being Jon, he hastens to apologize. "Look, Katniss, about earlier, I didn't mean to embarrass you… I know you aren't comfortable talking about certain Panem things in front of the other men—"

"No, it's fine, it's not that," I say quietly. Though I flounder for a bit, I figure I might as well pass along the news. "Maester Aemon died."

Jon blinks, clearly not expecting that, and frowns in confusion. "There was a raven?"

I hold up the earpiece. "Panem raven," I clarify. When he looks more bemused, I add, "I gave Sam and Gilly my spares."

This offers only a few seconds of comprehension before the frown lines not only return but seem to deepen on his forehead. He opens his mouth as if he wants to ask more questions, but doesn't know how to put it.

After a moment of this, a silence hanging in the air, I shuffle awkwardly and hug at my arms. "So yeah," I say. "That's what's going on back there."

Jon's expression changes to one of sadness as the news finally sinks in. "I'm sorry," he says softly. "I know you'd gotten close to him."

"But you knew him longer," I counter, still feeling guilty. "He must've been like a grandfather to you. Or, great-grandfather, at his age." Jon gives an appreciative scoff. "A whole century old. He lived a long life."

With a small sigh, Jon drops his gaze to the floor. "And now his watch is ended," he says.

"And now his watch is ended," I murmur in agreement, since it sounds like something they probably say at funerals. Just like District 12 with our three-fingered salute.

There's another silence that follows, until I remember that he's the one who came and knocked. Thinking back to the look on his face when I answered, it seemed like some sort of resolve.

"So, did you want something?" I ask carefully, not wanting to linger in the doorway for much longer.

For whatever reason, the question appears to fluster Jon. "Oh," he says, blinking. "No. I'll… uh, I'll let you rest." He wets his lips, runs his fingers through his curls. They slide down to rub nervously at the back of his neck, before his arm drops to his side and his soft gray eyes flick up to meet mine. "Goodnight, Katniss."

"Goodnight, Jon," I manage in barely over a whisper.

Then we both kind of waver there in the corridor, before he walks away and I retreat into my room, closing the door behind me.

Sleep doesn't come. Or maybe it does, dreamless, but there's no rest to be had. I lie in bed for what feels like hours, tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling, adjusting the pillows. But it's not a matter of whether the bed is comfortable. It's the room. It's become haunted after all.

Giving up, I throw off the covers and go to the window, gazing out over the shore. The waves are beckoning. I can see the ships rocking in the distance. I throw on my shadowskin over a few more layers, then quietly slip out of my room.

Save for the men on the Wall, Eastwatch is dormant, so there's nothing to shake me from a daze as I sneak out of the castle and follow the siren song of ocean waves and whistling wind all the way to shore. But as I approach my destination, my senses sharpen and I become aware of the finer details. The pleasing crunch of sand, pebbles, and gravel under my boots. The hiss of the seafoam on the tide as it ebbs and flows. The smell of salt and ice in the air.

I stand there for a while, watching the waves, wincing now and then when a particularly frigid breeze lashes at my face. But in the moonlight, it's kind of beautiful, seeing the billowing white foam sweep across the shore to kiss the coarse black sand.

After finding a spot at what I judge to be a safe distance from the tide, I sit down and bundle myself tightly in my cloak. Then I take off my boots and dig my hands and feet into the gravel and sand, as if to ground myself to something, to this world, to feel my place in it. And now, as I drink in the peculiar comfort of this spot rather than the unease, I'm reminded of something else. The beach from the Quarter Quell. The sand is rougher, the water more of a dark gray than a dazzling blue, and it is not balmy here by any means, but the sensation is the same. Right down to the urgent feeling of being ready to move on by morning.

Even now, I am still comparing this world to an arena. Something I can leave behind, either by winning, or by escaping as I have. I wonder what that says about what it means to me. Despite what I told Gale about fighting for it if I have to, am I taking Westeros as seriously as I should be…?

"Do you have any idea how cold that water is?" a voice calls out from behind me.

I jolt, shooting a glance over my shoulder, and my heart subsequently relaxes and starts racing again as I see Jon coming this way. Either I must've tuned way out, or the sound of footsteps on gravel were muffled by the roar of the ocean.

"If you're thinking of going for a swim, then I've changed my mind," he says. "Maybe you are completely mad."

Despite myself, I snort and concede with a shrug. "That's what I've been trying to tell you all along," I say dismissively, turning back to the water.

I hear a light chuckle, then Jon wanders around my right side and turns to look at me with a small smile, equal parts sympathetic and amused.

"At this point, I might have to consider your mermaid theory," he says, grunting while he crouches to take a seat next to me. "The men ran with it after you left. Said you washed up on the Frozen Shore, gained some legs, but lost your memory. Said it would explain the pretty voice, and your curiosity towards the ocean, and why you were so clean for supper even though no one saw you go near the baths." At this, I tense up but try to disguise it with a snort of laughter. Jon grins at me and continues, "I think it would explain why you hardly ever sleep. Maybe you need to be in water."

I roll my eyes at him, returning the grin. "You've seen me sleep. I'll sleep on the ship."

Raising his eyebrows skeptically, he laughs and gives a shake of his head. "Right, then, good luck with that. Perhaps being rocked about by violently choppy waters will do the trick. You seem to find them rather soothing," he says, punctuating this with a suspicious side-glance. When I scoff in disbelief, the pretense slips and he breaks into a laugh. "I know you're not a bloody mermaid, I'm just teasing you. You'd reek of fish and salt water."

"Oh? What do I reek of?" I counter, but promptly regret it since I've raised enough of his suspicions tonight. "Don't answer that."

Jon chuckles again, but looks oddly relieved, before his expression grows thoughtful as he watches the waves with me. "I'm starting to understand why this place feels so strange to you. It does have a certain… haunted air to it. Especially so late at night." He glances over at me fleetingly, curious, then faces the shore again. "Did you ever figure out what it reminds you of?"

I fall silent, rolling through my answers. The beach in the Quell. The lake in 12. The portal, of course, but I can't tell him that.

"It's a liminal space," I say at last, and when I feel Jon's confused gaze on me, I think back to Beetee's explanation. "A threshold, or place of passage. Somewhere you feel like you're in between. Tunnels, ocean shores, midnight, just before dawn." Closing my eyes, I breathe in deeply, and the smell of saltwater reminds me of the foamy sea that nearly drowned me in my dying fire mutt dreams, so I open them again. "Where you're supposed to be leaving something behind and moving on to the next. Going from the known to the unknown. So when you're hanging there in the halfway land, things feel familiar, but… unreal."

"And that's what this is," Jon says, his tone questioning.

"Or so my friend Beetee would tell you," I answer with a half-shrug. "To me, it still seems kind of haunted. Like strange things have happened here."

A groan from Jon. "Oh, don't, you'll get it stuck in my head again," he says in mock despair.

Inspired, I laugh and begin to sing under my breath, "Strange things did happen here…"

"No stranger would it be," Jon chimes in, to my utter surprise. I compose myself and join in so we're both singing the second part. "If we met up at midnight—"

"—at Eastwatch-by-the-sea," I finish with a grin.

Jon laughs. "That actually kind of works," he says, impressed.

Indeed, I'm proud of myself, but I'm just as pleased with him. "So, you can sing," I say. "Shireen told me you had a good voice."

"Oh, did she?" Blushing, he turns his face away. "I try not to subject people to it."

"No, she's right, you do," I assure him. "My father would've said it has real authority."

"I don't know about that," Jon says, chuckling bashfully.

But I know it's true, even if I'm just going by the one line he sang. His voice is sweet and clear and melancholy, like a wolf's howl. Softened by shyness, of course, but I think if the mockingjays were here, they would all fall silent to listen.

"There's another song I can't get out of my head," he admits after a lull. "It's been in there since this morning."

"Which one?" My body goes rigid, thinking of the song about shining stars, night breezes, and craving a kiss.

"The one with Abraham, and the angel, and the daughter with the bow," Jon says, and my shoulders relax. "It reminded me of Craster and leaving his boys in the woods. I assume Isaac was his son." His brow furrows in thought. "The angel, was it like a god? I never asked you about your gods."

I frown, trying to remember what I know about religion. He may be on to something about the song. In Thirteen, during the rare Nuclear History class I was present for, they said the most prominent religions in the past were called Abrahamic, and an elderly woman from Eleven said people still sang songs that were inspired by them. This same woman thanked me for being Rue's "guardian angel," which makes me wonder if the song came from there and the Covey just brought it to 12.

That would explain the dream I had after Rue's death, where she sat in the trees with her mockingjays singing songs I'd never heard in a clear, melodic voice. How can you dream of songs you've never heard before? I must've conjured them up somehow, subconsciously, from memories of Grandma Maude singing the ones she learned from Barb.

"We don't really have religion in Panem," I answer, mentally shaking the thought away. "Not anymore, at least. It started dying out even before the Dark Days." My mind drifts to the woman from 11, and the people I saw during my stay in 2 last year who sprinkled breadcrumbs on dead bodies "for their journey back," and I reconsider. "Maybe some people do still believe in a God or gods in certain districts, but…" I shrug feebly, then lean forward and hug my arms around my knees, "when everyone around you is starving, and the government's started taking away your children and forcing you to watch them die… either you cling to your faith tighter than ever, or you give up on it entirely."

Though maybe that's what the Capitol wanted. To crush all symbols of hope, so we'd have faith in only them.

When I glance at Jon out of the corner of my eye, he looks surprised, even if mostly understanding. "You don't pray to anything?" he says, a question and a statement. "What about your family, your ancestors, what did they believe in?"

I give it some thought, running through my memories for what my family has held sacred, and look up to the heavens with a sigh. "Stars and spirits," I say, thinking of how Grandma Maude used to say things were written in the stars. "Celestial bodies. Natural elements. Earth, air, fire, water. Things you can see or feel. That give life, things you need. Things that are free, that grow and heal and endure, or tell you something about the world, that have been around long since before Panem and will still be here long after we're gone."

"Spirits of nature," says Jon thoughtfully. "Sounds like the old gods. If you don't mind me saying so."

Knowing what I do of the old gods, I silently admit he has a point. I was even going to mention the woods, with the medicinal plants that brought my parents together, the mockingjays my father would sing to, the trees I'd climb for protection from wild dogs when I was hunting alone to feed my family, and the rock ledge that had such a glorious view of the valley and mountains. Birds, beasts, trees, stones, streams… if the old gods existed anywhere in Panem, it would be in the forests of District 12. Though I guess it makes sense that in any world, people would build some kind of faith out of a respect for nature, or believe in things as old as life itself.

"No, I don't mind you saying so," I say after a moment, turning my gaze toward him.

"Good, because…" Jon says, and hesitates as he meets my eyes.

I try at an apologetic smile, which feels more like a grimace. "I know," I say. "Sorry I've been so defensive about it today. Haven't been myself lately."

Jon nods in acknowledgement. "I assumed it was because you missed Shireen, until I heard you talking to her the other night." He looks at me, his eyes gentle yet coaxing and curious. "Has there been something else on your mind?"

The kindness in his tone lures out my answer. "Missing Shireen was some of it. We only started talking again a few days ago. The concept of earpieces is… something people need to be eased into," I explain with an awkward laugh, earning a small conceding scoff from Jon. "It's just… thanks to Gale, I got caught up in a mystery from back home."

"A mystery?" he says, intrigued and even a little amused. "Seems to me that quite a few of them come from Panem."

I actually crack a grin, though it wavers in seconds. "It's the singer of 'The Hanging Tree,'" I say. "The story I told you, about the girl who ran away into the woods with her lover and was never seen again, that was all true."

Jon appears to be thinking hard, as if trying to recall the story. "And it's not you?" he asks promptingly.

"No, but we are blood-related," I say. "Her name was Lucy Gray. I'll spare you the long story, but basically I'd only ever heard she disappeared and was presumed dead. Never really put much thought into it, since it happened almost seventy years ago, until Gale went and told me she was District Twelve's first victor. And that her lover was…" I pause and throw Jon a weary glance. "Well, suffice it to say, if her lover was the one who caused her death, I'm not surprised it was him."

"But you still don't know," Jon says.

I shake my head softly. "And ever since Gale told me about all this, it feels like I still have one foot in Panem," I say, turning my attention back to shore. "Or maybe it's been like that since I left. Maybe it's not just Eastwatch, it's Westeros that doesn't seem entirely real. It's like I'm… treating this place as if it's a dream, or a vacation, or… an escape."

He lets this sink in for a second, then chuckles under his breath. "You'd think the scratch from the shadowcat would've woken you up."

"Yeah, you'd think," I agree, rubbing absently at my arm. A dull ache returns to my chest. "But it didn't fully hit me until Maester Aemon. He wasn't even my first death in Westeros. I liked Mance, to an extent I even respected him. But I only knew him for a few hours. With Aemon…" I trail off, bunching my fingers in my cloak.

"He was the first person here you truly lost," Jon finishes for me.

My fingers unclench, and my hands fall to the beach, burying themselves in grit and gravel. "It's kind of like Lucy Gray," I say. "People are going to die no matter where you go. It just hurts more once you've gotten to know them."

A reflective silence passes over us, before I huff the windblown hair out of my face.

"Not that I know how or where or when or if she even died. Maybe she's an eighty-two-year-old woman, living it up somewhere well beyond Panem, not saying a word about her identity because she's loving the mystery." Rolling my eyes, I mutter, "Mysteries are overrated."

"Oh, are they now?" Jon says pointedly, and laughs.

Despite everything, I find myself snorting too. "I'll tell you everything after Hardhome," I promise. "But I warn you, it'll only raise more questions."

"It's all right. I told you, your secrets are your own," Jon replies. "Only, things don't add up sometimes. And I wasn't sure if it was a matter of… of you not trusting me, perhaps."

I turn to look at him in surprise. "I trust you," I say, with a nervous swallow. "It's just a lot, and I don't want it to distract you."

A fleeting grin crosses his lips as a scoff slips through. "It isn't a distraction to get to know you," he says, which for some stupid reason makes me blush. "Besides, you know that I of all people would understand what it's like to wonder what happened to your family." Compassion flickers in his eyes as they find mine. "To not know if they're dead or alive."

I feel a pang of remorseful understanding. "Because of Benjen," I realize, my words barely audible over a harsh gust of wind.

"Uncle Benjen, yes," Jon admits. "But my brother Bran as well." He falters, averts his eyes again as if uncertain or embarrassed. "It was Nightfort where he went beyond the Wall."

Nightfort. The abandoned castle with all the dark tales. Halder's playfully sinister voice creeps into my mind. They say that some who pass north through Nightfort's gate never come back again.

"But that's just a legend, isn't it? The disappearances?" I remind him. "I thought it wasn't limited to the Nightfort, since they were just deserters. Deserters who never got caught."

"That's one theory," Jon says, sounding doubtful as he stares out at the edge of the Wall by the sea. "Northerners find it difficult to believe, though. Happened to too many Starks, and Starks aren't known for breaking an oath... At least not usually." A conflicted look darkens his eyes, before his features crease with deep thought. "Maybe, sometimes, that's just the way it is. A person sets out for somewhere beyond, and they're never seen again."

Briefly I follow his gaze, before my own drifts back to the beach as another ominous wave climbs, topples, and pushes burbling seafoam towards shore. Just like me, I think to myself.

"Old Nan used to tell us stories," Jon continues, breaking the silence. "Of bastards and youngest sons of Starks that took the black, joined the Night's Watch just as they have for thousands of years. Every so often, a century or two or five, one would disappear. It was always just one man who would vanish without a trace. She used to blame the Children of the Forest or the old gods, said they were the ones who took them. Said they used to do the same with the First Men." He laughs weakly to himself, as if it must sound ridiculous. "With no word of Benjen even from the wildlings, I was about ready to believe that's what happened to him. Until you came along and said he was alive and well… Perhaps they took Bran instead."

I chew on my lip, wrestling a wince of guilt. I never said alive and well. "Do you really believe that?" I ask.

We're sitting so close, shoulder-to-shoulder for the sake of shared body heat, that I feel him shrug and lean forward, folding his arms over his knees. "It's just an old story," he says. "But it's the only explanation I have for why they went north of the Wall and still haven't returned. Other than them being dead."

His words seep in slowly, and I realize something annoyingly ironic. I have done to Jon almost exactly what Gale has done to me. Plagued him with a reopened mystery that it's possible he was never meant to solve.

Maybe we both should have left well enough alone. And I think I could accept that with Lucy Gray, but too many uncertainties come tied with the Benjen thing. If I should have told him everything or nothing at all, if any of this would have played out the same way if I had, if we ever would have met or become friends had I not run into Benjen in the first place.

If Beetee had never succeeded, and I had never agreed to go through that portal…

I glance over at Jon, as if, despite feeling the warmth of his presence beside me, still needing proof he's truly there. Tousled black curls and eyebrow scars and all.

"What do you think is worse?" I ask, lifting my eyes to his. "Knowing, or not knowing?"

He ponders this for a second, then cracks a rueful half-smile. "I don't know."

Scoffing, I make a weak attempt to return it. "Me neither," I whisper.

The halfhearted grin lingers on his face, twitches as if I've said something funny, then slowly falls away as his eyes lock with mine. They darken again, the same way they did earlier today, and I recognize something in them that makes my heart skip a beat. Something I feel stirring in my chest when I see them flicker to my lips, when he purses and slightly parts his own. And this is where I usually recoil, this is where I'm supposed to flee, to scramble backwards across the sand and gravel and get to my feet and run back to my room. But now it's all I can do not to lean in instead.

This is not good, I think. I've been tired all day, too tired to filter my thoughts and secrets, to rein in my impulses. I've already said something stupid twice today, I should get out of here and go back to bed before I do a third stupid thing like kiss him.

I feel my resolve weakening, trembling like my fingers at the bowstring that night I almost shot Mance. Maybe it's this place, or maybe it's the proximity, but I'm lost in the gray of his eyes and ready to break under the longing, to give in and release the arrow, even knowing it could only lead to trouble for the both of us…

But just like that night, Jon gets there first.

If I even have time to gasp, it's cut off by his lips, soft but swift as he draws me in to him with nothing but his mouth, which feels deliciously hot pressed against mine in the wake of Eastwatch's bitter chill. And if I have a coherent thought in my mind, it is this – Jon Snow certainly knows how to kiss. He kisses like I might expect a man of the Night's Watch to kiss, like someone who is starved for it, someone who hasn't tasted a pair of lips in months. And I would know. I haven't been kissed like this in a long time, not since the beach, maybe not ever.

I'm feeling that thing again, from the cave and the beach with Peeta, though it's not a warmth that spreads through me but a blaze, one that threatens to consume every sensible thought I have. The only relief comes from Jon's frozen fingers as he turns toward me and cups my face in his hand. I shudder at the icy touch, but when he tries to take it away, I reach up and hold it there, moving into him and kissing him harder.

We break away for barely a second, foreheads pressed against each other as his warm breath tickles my chin. Then he's kissing me again, fingers sliding from my cheek and chin down to my neck, and I know he feels the burn scars and my involuntary flinch because his touch gets lighter there, inquisitive, gentle, before he drops his hand and his arm comes around my waist instead to pull me closer. I bring my own hand up the back of his neck and tangle my fingers in his curls, and he makes a sound not unlike the ones he made in his dreams, and I don't know if he's lowering me to the ground or if I'm falling and bringing him down with me, but somehow I end up on my back in the gravel with him on top of me, our bodies dangerously intertwined.

Remembering that hunger from the beach, the way kisses never satisfied it and only made it stronger, I grow increasingly aware of what this sort of kissing could turn into. What Jon has done before, but I haven't. Thorne nearly had his head for it last time. I doubt they'd let him get away with it again, even if he is Lord Commander. But the kiss becomes more insistent, and I can't tell which one of us is more desperate for it to continue.

Is it Jon? I wonder, confusion slipping through my blissful haze. Would he really break his vows for me?

A voice that sounds like Peeta's creeps into my head. You still have no idea, do you? it says. The effect you can have.

But the possibility that it's me, that on top of everything I would let Jon break his vows simply because of how much I want him, is the force that finally rips me away. I make a small sound against his lips and push firmly against his chest, see his eyes open, darkened and dilated, and then he reels back in shock as we both come up for air. Panting, he drags a hand down his mouth and averts his gaze, looking not only guilty but utterly astonished with himself.

"Apologies, my lady, that shouldn't have happened," he gets out in a breath.

Despite my own racing heartbeat and panicked thoughts, I can't help but notice with some disappointment that we're back to "my lady" again. Two steps forward, three steps back.

"No, it shouldn't have," I agree after I've caught my own breath, and struggle to think of something else to say, to salvage what we have before we're stuck on a ship together for days on end. Glancing his way, a thought occurs to me, and I raise my eyebrows at him. "Good thing we're in a liminal space where nothing is real."

Jon blinks in surprise, and then a look of comprehension crosses his face, which gives way to a faint grin of relief that I've given him an out.

"Right," he says, albeit unsurely. To the best of my abilities, I've managed to make it lighthearted. Enough for him to actually meet my eyes, if only for a few seconds.

I smooth the grit and sand from my hair, my cloak, pull my boots back on and get to my feet. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go to bed and pretend it was all a dream," I say, then turn and leave him there on the beach, walking back towards the castle.

Resisting the urge to tell him that my bedroom is a liminal space too.

Chapter Text

The oars of our rowboat paddle steadily through still waters, but I feel my heart pounding against my ribcage like the waves against our ship a few nights before as I peer around Jon Snow to see what lies ahead of us. Waiting for the stroke of the oar blades to hide the sound, I discreetly activate my earpiece for the first time in nine days, slip a hand under my shadowskin to turn on the camera, and shift the cloak to the side. Though Beetee's had his aerial view of Hardhome already, I know he will not want to miss this.

Turning my earpiece all the way off for the entirety of the voyage was a matter of principle at first, a wordless reminder to Beetee and myself of where our priorities should lie. And with not much to film while out at sea besides ships and ocean and starry skies, it wasn't long before my camera joined my earpiece and microphone in the parachute container tucked away in my pack below deck.

About three days in, the storms picked up, and I got those choppy waters I was promised. Winds so relentless I could barely keep my hair in its braid, and waves that slammed into the ship so hard that if I didn't find something stable to cling to for dear life, the deck would shift beneath my feet and I'd be left staggering until the nearest person stopped me. The nearest person being Tormund, who steadied me from behind with a loud laugh and joked about mockingjays getting their sea legs. Later, I'd made my way to the side of the ship, gripping the wooden rail for support, when Jon came to check on me. At this point, no doubt he was starting to take me at my word about never having been on a ship before, but I assured him it was nothing I couldn't handle. And that was when another wave smacked against the hull, dousing us both with a salty ocean spray.

I'm certain I must've resembled Buttercup after a bath – resigned, hair stringy and dripping, slightly grumpy – because Jon took one look at me and burst out laughing. I'd cracked up too, encouraged by his laughter and flattened curls, but that cemented it for me that my devices would stay in their hiding place, at least during this weather. I have no idea how waterproof they are.

Now, Jon stands at the front of the rowboat, stiff and vigilant, his back turned to me, and although I know his eyes are trained on Hardhome in the distance, the true source of his nerves, I can't help but be reminded of the last time the air in the boat was this tense.

The morning after the kiss, the first of many moments of lingering eye contact proved that Jon and I both knew it hadn't been a dream. We could try not to look at each other, but that turned out to be a challenge on the rowboat. Taking separate boats would've drawn suspicion since he was the one who invited me along and we'd been sleeping close to each other for most of the journey, but it was a case of "damned if you do, damned if you don't," because after the third instance of meeting each other's gaze and glancing away, I noticed we were getting some raised eyebrows from Edd and Tormund. Ignoring their speculative stares, I tried to direct my own toward the fleet of ships ahead of us.

Of course, I'm no stranger to pretending a kiss never happened, but after the first Games I didn't have to interact with Peeta for months. We both lived in the Victor's Village, but I was usually up before he was, spending most of my time off in the woods. And with Gale, I only saw him on Sundays when we went hunting together. It's different when you're stuck on a ship with someone for days on end.

The first time this happened to me, a secret kiss that complicated things, I had a week to myself while Gale worked in the mines to plan out this whole speech about how I didn't want a boyfriend and didn't ever see myself marrying or having kids. I could recite the same thing to Jon, but I knew there would be no point in doing so. Marriage and children weren't in his future either. And as Lord Commander, I couldn't see him flaunting a girlfriend to the rest of the Night's Watch, so what else was there to address other than the fact that, despite all of that, he kissed me anyway?

I'll say this much for Jon. In the aftermath, he didn't freeze me out or appear wounded like Peeta. But he also didn't go Gale's route and act like it had completely slipped his mind. There were a lot of looks from him that I had to pretend not to notice, because they would remind me so vividly of that night, that moment on the beach.

Not that I could forget it in the first place. The way he kissed me, the things it made me feel, it just wasn't possible. Forgetting a kiss like that would be about as likely as a Baird forgetting a song. If Jon's lips had lyrics, I would already know them by heart, and remember them for as long as I lived.

Most of our problems stemmed from us being alone together, so for the first few days, I tried to always have someone else around as a barrier. Helping the others with tasks around the ship or asking Tormund about Hardhome and what to expect there. Jon did the same, busying himself with the Night's Watch brothers or joining the conversation with Tormund while maintaining a respectful distance.

He still treated me kindly, of course, spoke to me directly, asked me if I slept well. Even something as simple as this made me blush. I couldn't exactly tell him that the first night we spent on the ship, my dreams consisted not of nightmares, but of sneaking across the courtyard at Castle Black, finding my way into the larder, and using Ghost as a pillow. Or that I hadn't slept so sweetly since the nights that Peeta stayed with me. Somehow this felt like a detail he might read into. Instead, I confirmed I'd finally slept through the night, and he teased me lightly about the mermaid theory again, which to his credit did get half a grin out of me, though it obviously sent both our minds back to that beach.

All the same, I was glad when that one wave hit, the tension it broke between us. The storms were terrifying, sure. One night when I was cozily snuggled in the warmth of Ghost's fur, he got up abruptly as if alerted to danger, and sliding off of him and hitting the ground gave me such a jolt that it startled me awake, only to find that the force of a wave had knocked me out of bed. But as nerve-wracking as it was to be surrounded by ocean, enormous waves, and roaring winds instead of sturdy trees and solid ground, at least it kept my thoughts preoccupied with something other than the memory of Jon's lips against mine. I couldn't very well think about kissing Jon when I was growing more and more convinced that if there was such thing as a past life, I probably drowned in a shipwreck in one of them. If only Finnick could see me now.

After so many days at sea, weathering storms within and without, it was almost easy to forget where we were headed. But presently, as our rowboat creeps across the water, I feel a resonant, ongoing drumbeat in my chest as I take in the sight in front of me.

This is not the sleepy Haunted Forest where I hunt, or the familiar stone towers of Castle Black with Night's Watch brothers milling around, or even Eastwatch-by-the-sea. This is someplace new, and it has everyone in this boat on edge.

Hardhome is about the size of one of the quarry-based villages you might find in District 2. Located beneath a great black cliff riddled with holes that Albett calls the "screaming caves," it stretches along the bay at the tip of the peninsula I know to be Storrold's Point. I see the lights of multiple fires, just as Beetee described, and several wooden huts built larger than the houses we had in the Seam. The dock we're closing in on is already crowded with people, free folk who noticed our ships approaching. Like Tormund, they all wear layers of leather and pelts and furs, brown instead of black, and dusted in snow like the rocks that border their land. And unlike the citizens in the districts during my Victory Tour, they don't even pretend to look thrilled to see us.

What am I doing here? I wonder, the closer we get to the dock. What exactly have I dragged myself into?

At Castle Black, my piece of this world was limited to fifty men. More when the Baratheon army was visiting, but never this many at a time. Hovering on the shores of Hardhome are hundreds of wildlings, with thousands waiting beyond, most if not all of whom hate the Night's Watch and anyone else associated with them.

But I set out to see more of Westeros, and I can't do that from the ship. What good can I do there? The Red Woman claimed I'd serve a great purpose here at Hardhome. Maybe she was exaggerating, and I'm just supposed to help wildlings come aboard, though something tells me that's not it. A gut feeling, perhaps, or just a longing to walk on solid land again.

So when our rowboat slides onto shore, and Jon steps out and offers his hand, I don't hesitate to take it. Only letting go when my legs lose their wobble and I'm satisfied that the ground beneath my feet isn't undulating. My eyes catch on the cliffs above, briefly mesmerized by beautiful curtains of ice, before I sense the prickle of friction around us and dare to drop my gaze.

The masses of wildlings are staring at us, silent, solemn, and skeptical. I can't help scanning their faces as the rest of our men climb out of the boat behind us. Men and women, some girls my age, a couple of boys I estimate to be fifteen or so climbing down from the roof of a hut and running up to join the gathering. Their expressions range from wary squints to resentful glares, but the message is the same. We are not welcome here.

I adjust my cloak and the quiver on my shoulder, unsure if I want them to see it or not, and feeling distinctly like I just stepped off a train delivering a band of Peacekeepers to their front door. In my Mockingjay suit, black as crow feathers, maybe to these people I am no less a Peacekeeper myself. As I ruminate on this, Tormund walks around me to stand at Jon's right, while Edd joins me on my left.

"You trust me, Jon Snow?" Tormund says under his breath.

Jon turns his head, glances around at our onlookers. "Does that make me a fool?"

"We're fools together now," says Tormund, and they begin the trek up the shore side by side.

A trail of flat, wooden steps forms a path from the shore that winds through the center of the village. As we start to follow it, I do my best to look straight ahead, but it seems I can't even obey my own orders. My gaze wanders, flickers to the sea of faces. A girl with tangled reddish-brown hair who reminds me of Annie. A balding, bearded man eyeing my cloak. A frowning, ashen-skinned woman around my mother's age, her features just as worn and beaten-down. If I use my imagination, I can turn the powdery snow on their coats into coal dust. But I don't let myself linger too long.

We haven't gone far before a piercing whistle cuts through the air. The whistler must be someone important since the wildlings who haven't bothered to clear a path for us immediately move aside as the same whistled note is echoed faintly somewhere farther back. Up ahead, a group of men tromps down the slope toward us, led by someone wearing what appears to be a skull as a mask.

This doesn't seem to throw Tormund, who squares his shoulders as he quickens his stride. I keep up easily, despite just getting my land legs back, though my eyes drift briefly up and to the left when I feel people watching us from above. More wildlings perched on roofs and rock ledges. Just like me, they prefer to be up high, so they can see their enemies before their enemies see them.

"Lord of Bones," Tormund says, bringing my gaze forward again. We meet the other group in the middle and come to a stop. "Been a long time."

I partially obscure myself behind Jon and Tormund as I get a good look at the leader. I'm almost tempted to lean toward Edd and mutter, Why do you think they call him that? But I get the feeling that even Edd isn't in the mood to crack any sarcastic jokes.

Besides, it's obvious where he gets his title. He and his companions are still rattling as they finish shuffling into place. There's the absurdly large skull mask, of course, but he's also adorned in multiple different bones, mostly animal though I suspect some to be human. Another skull, definitely animal, crowns the gnarled wooden staff in his hands.

"Last time I saw you, the little crow was your prisoner," he drawls, and dark eyes scrutinize us from behind empty sockets. "The other way around now. What happened?"

Tormund's answer is short and simple. "War."

"War," Lord of Bones says with derision. "You call that a war? The greatest army the North has ever seen, cut to pieces by some southern king."

Stannis, I realize, as memories flash through my mind. The forest fire. The army charging the Wall. The thousands of hoofbeats the next morning that made the ground shudder and quake. Strangely, the thought comforts me, though I try not to show it. If his power could intimidate the wildlings, maybe the Boltons don't stand a chance against him either. Maybe Shireen is safer than I thought.

"We should gather the elders," says Tormund. "Find somewhere quiet to talk."

"You don't give the orders here," Lord of Bones warns.

"I'm not giving an order," Tormund says sharply.

There's a pause as Lord of Bones gives him a once-over. "Why aren't you in chains?"

This time, Jon speaks up. "He's not my prisoner."

Both wildlings turn to look at him. "No?" Lord of Bones asks, an edge of scorn in his voice. "What is he?"

"We're allies," Jon answers, loud and clear. And instantly I know he's said the wrong thing. The truth, maybe, but a truth that adds an extra layer of chill to the air around us and makes the muscles in Tormund's jaw go rigid.

"You fucking traitor," Lord of Bones snarls, pointing his staff at Tormund. The wildlings standing with him spread out and start to reach for their weapons. Backing up a step, the Night's Watch brothers cluster together, and Jon extends his arm slightly as if to shield me. Behind him, I'm already grasping my bow. "You fight for the crows now?"

Tormund takes a step forward and meets him head-on. "I don't fight for the crows," he says coldly.

"We're not here to fight," Jon cuts in again, standing his ground. "We're here to talk."

"Is that right?" Even with ninety percent of his features hidden by his mask, Lord of Bones looks unimpressed. "You and the pretty crow do a lot of talking, Tormund?" He smacks him in the chest with his skull staff, more than once. I watch Tormund begin to bristle, though his posture remains eerily calm. I sense this is dangerous. "And when you're done talking, do you get down on your knees, and suck his—"

It happens fast. Tormund rips the staff out of his hands and hammers him in the chest in one quick motion, then there's a loud crack as he swings it at his head. I think I see teeth fly, skull shrapnel too, along with a spray of blood before Lord of Bones falls to his knees. But Tormund's not finished and brings it down on him again and again, knocking him to the ground and smashing his head in like a pumpkin. You can hear the collective intake of breath from the once still crowd as Tormund starts whaling on his face and body, hear the crack of ribs both decorative and internal. Lord of Bones maybe gets out a couple of startled grunts until a blow to the head makes a sickening crunch and silences him for good.

The ninth hit is overkill, really, and the tenth has a disturbing squish to it, but finally Tormund flings the staff aside and looks to the wildlings, who clutch their weapons tighter but seem to have lost their conviction.

"Gather the elders," he says, "and let's talk."

They part for him as he takes to the wooden trail again, walking around the lifeless lump of bones that's lying face-down in the dirt. If there's any face left to speak of. Probably not, judging by the sizable puddle of blood currently seeping into the earth.

Jon, who backed up closer to me somewhere between the fourth and fifth blow, passes me a brief glance as if trying to gauge my reaction, then leads a select few of us in following Tormund. "Having second thoughts yet?" he asks quietly, his voice laced with a tentative invitation. A free pass to stay behind with the rest of the brothers, help them receive the boats and prepare them for the wildlings.

But Tormund has extended an invitation too. The way he's talked about it while we were at sea, I'm not only allowed to tag along for whatever this is, but practically encouraged. Like to him, my attendance for this mission is a given. And it's not because of my constant presence at Jon's side. There's a certainty to it that makes me curious.

So instead, I shoot Jon a quizzical look. "You think that's the first time I've seen someone's head bashed in?" I try to sound unfazed, but it comes out more breathless than I'd like it to. I fix my quiver strap again and pick up the pace. "It's not like I assumed that we came here to sing."

Jon scoffs a little. "Good point," he says. But in my peripheral vision, I catch Edd eyeing us with some bemusement.

Tormund guides us uphill until we come to a wooden hut tucked in the corner of the village. To the left of it is a sturdy-looking pile of hardened snow packed between the hut and the cliff, and behind it lies a fence that runs along the back before snaking around the other huts on the right and stretching all the way down to shore.

I find myself appraising the fence on our walk to the hut, comparing it to the one from 12. It's made of wood instead of chain-link and barbed wire, and half its size, about ten to twelve to fifteen feet high depending on the section. Though it looks strong, my first thought is how easily I could get over it. Only a matter of climbing onto the hut's slanted roof and braving the jump to the other side, if not scaling the fence itself despite risk of splinter. In lieu of that, I could take the sloping trail of packed snow and go right over it, provided the rocks and ledges weren't too slippery.

No, that fence would never stand a chance at keeping me in. Which makes me wonder how effective it is at keeping others out.

We file into the hut after Tormund to wait for the elders to arrive. I move aside and let the others go around me since I'm slowed down by hesitation mixed with curiosity. There's a loft above our heads, an access ladder braced against it, and secured on logs that cross the gaping hole in the ceiling is a large wooden carving of crisscrossed scaly creatures. Initially I think they're dragons, but upon further inspection they might be fish, with long and pointed teeth not unlike Enobaria's. I walk over to stand near Jon and Tormund by the fire in the center of the room before memories of the 62nd Games and torn throats can resurface.

Eventually they come. The elders. Leaders and representatives of various wildling clans, many differing in dress and appearance. Seashells, bones, and painted faces. Before the hut gets too crowded and loud, I hear Tormund address some of them by name. Loboda, a man with protruding scars and watchful eyes, leers at me from the moment he walks in, getting a bit too close as he rounds the fire pit to rest against a pole. Then the ground starts to shake in a very familiar way, making me break our gaze first as I whirl to face the door. The quake of enormous footsteps intensifies until I can feel it in the rattle of my teeth, and then the figure ducks its head inside and my heart sticks in my throat.

It's one thing to have seen them from miles away, in the safety of a tree, and quite another to be on ground level when one enters the room. It – he – has got to be at least fourteen feet tall, as tall as the fence outside if not taller. His boulder-sized head nearly touches the roof when he straightens up, revealing facial features that are just as striking as his height. Almost bearlike, with a long, wide nose that's more like a snout. I'm following him with my eyes when I feel a hand touch my arm, followed by Jon's warm breath grazing my ear.

"There aren't any giants in Twelve?" he guesses, sounding vaguely amused.

I manage a weak smile. "Just the ones made of earth and stone," I answer. When he looks intrigued, I clarify: "Appalachian Mountains."

He chuckles, and I decide not to tell him about the fabled rock giants from my grandmother's stories. What I'm looking at is no fairytale, but something living, breathing, real. Made not of earth, but flesh. Then Jon moves his arm around me, sending a tiny shiver through my own.

"Careful," he says, coaxing me back around to face the fire. "The ones in Westeros… don't like it when people stare."

Understandable, I think, and even relatable. Advice given just in time, too, since the giant catches sight of me as he trudges to the far corner of the hut. I nod and quickly lower my gaze to the flames. "Well, who does, really?" I mutter, and let myself be partially shielded by Jon's and Tormund's shoulders once more.

After what feels like half an hour, finally all the clans' leaders seem to be accounted for, or at least no one else has entered in the last five minutes or so. Everyone's either huddled around the fire or standing sullenly in the shadows. Arms crossed, they look to Jon and Tormund as the room fills with an expectant silence.

And then Jon begins to speak.

"My name is Jon Snow," he says, getting only coughs and fire crackles in response. "I'm Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

The wind picks up outside, howling, whistling through the space beneath the door behind us. But I don't clutch my cloak, don't move a muscle to draw attention to myself as I look to Jon, who's taking in his audience.

"We're not friends," says Jon. "We've never been friends. We won't become friends today." The stiff stares and muted frowns around the fire seem to confirm his words. But to their credit, they all appear to be listening intently. "This isn't about friendship. This is about survival. This is about putting a 700-foot wall between you—" he gestures to the door— "and what's out there."

The dark-haired woman standing across from me on the other side of the fire folds her arms tighter across her chest, which is draped in seashells. "You built that wall to keep us out," she says, furrowing her eyebrows. I think her name is Karsi.

"Since when do the crows give two shits if we live?" Loboda intones.

"Since we remembered who the real enemy is," Jon answers gravely. "The White Walkers don't care if a man's free folk or crow. We're all the same to them, meat for their army." He pauses, casts me a fleeting glance before continuing. "But together, we can beat them."

Karsi's expression shifts to that of amusement, a sardonic little smile playing across her lips. "Beat the White Walkers?" she echoes, as if this is nothing more than precious children's babble. "Good luck with that. Run from them, maybe."

Without a word, Jon removes the black satchel that's slung around his neck, and I back up so it doesn't swing at me. It sounds heavy, with a familiar musical clink to its contents. He crosses in front of Tormund and me and brings it to Karsi, undeterred by the older man who steps protectively in front of her. Slowly, he holds out the bag for her to take.

"It's not a trick," he insists, so she elbows the man out of the way and grabs it from him. Satisfied, Jon returns to his spot as she lifts the flap. "It's a gift. For those who join us."

Reaching into the satchel, Karsi pulls out something that makes her stop short and look up at him uncertainly. I squint at the blade pinched between her fingers until the fire reflects off the shiny black material and there's no mistaking what it is.

"Dragonglass," says Jon, as Karsi passes the bag around the circle. "A man of the Night's Watch used one of these daggers to kill a Walker."

"You saw this?" Loboda asks.

"No," Jon admits. "But I trust the man."

That's right, he's talking about Sam. I remember what Gilly said about it and try to picture Sam attacking one of those monsters with such a small and unassuming weapon. Was this before they knew what it could do? Did he just run at it with whatever he had at the time?

If it was to protect Gilly and Baby Sam, then I believe it. I guess it's true that desperation makes people do crazy things.

"There are old stories about dragonglass," Karsi muses, turning the blade over in her hands.

Loboda sneers at this. "There are old stories about ice spiders big as hounds."

"And with the things we've seen, you don't believe them?" she says, giving him a look.

That shuts him up, but after a few seconds of terror brought on by the mental image of giant ice spiders, I'm surprised that there's much room for doubt. Obsidian is just cooled lava, after all. Lava is fire, and fire kills the dead. I don't feel like voicing this aloud, but there has to be something to that…

Jon breaks into my thoughts. "Come with me, and I'll share these weapons."

"Come with you where?" Karsi asks, stepping forward.

"There are good lands south of the Wall. The Night's Watch will let you through the tunnel and allow your people to farm those lands."

The room stirs with mixed reactions – contemplative nods and doubtful scowls and muttering, lots and lots of muttering. It's even clearer to me now how radical this is, how unprecedented. This is "donating our winnings to the families of the dead tributes" levels of controversial. I heard it in the voices at Castle Black, and now I see it in the eyes of the free folk, gazing upon Jon Snow like he's either a mad man, a good man, or a liar.

I look at him too, and my lips curve upwards into the tiniest of smiles. I know which one he is.

"I knew Mance Rayder," Jon says firmly. "He never wanted a war with the Night's Watch. He wanted a new life for his people, for you. We're prepared to give you that new life."

Karsi raises her eyebrows at him. "If…?"

Jon doesn't hesitate in answering. "If you swear you'll join us when the real war begins."

A pause as Jon's offer sinks in. More uncertain glances passed around the room. You can tell the deal has stunned many of them, but it cannot immediately undo what has always existed between them, what the Wall has always symbolized. Panem's decades of hatred towards the Careers and the Capitol pales in comparison to the thousands of years where free folk fought crow.

"Where is Mance?" Loboda asks at last.

Many heads turn back to Jon. As Tormund tenses in front of me, I feel in my chest the full weight of this question. The tangled, complicated knot that is the answer. The delicate precision that is needed to unravel it.

"He died," Jon says.

There. It's mournful, it's true, but it's discreet. I'm barely withholding my sigh of relief when Loboda bounces back with the dreaded follow-up question. "How?"

Jon shuffles a bit, which makes me wary. Loboda is leering at him distrustfully across the fire, waiting for an answer that could make or break this frail, tentative hint of a potential alliance. I drop my gaze to the pit. The room sounds exactly like that night. The moment of Mance's death, after the screams had ceased. Silence except for the crackling of the flames…

And then Jon kills that silence. "I put an arrow through his heart," he says.

My eyes snap up and lock on him in bewilderment as the room explodes with roars of protest. Wooden benches scrape the floor as people jump to their feet. Snarling voices hurl vicious threats across the room. Axes are gripped, steel swords unsheathed. Some of them try to come our way. Tormund steps forward, trying to calm them, and Jon moves again slightly in front of me but resigns himself to the pandemonium.

Why? I wonder, eyes flitting back and forth between Jon and the free folk he's enraged. Why did he lead with that?

Jon has done something that I have come to expect only from Peeta – used his words to drop a bomb on our audience that can hardly be contained. Under different circumstances, this is good, useful, when we are actively trying to incite fury in the crowd and we're way up onstage when it hits. Not when we are right in the middle of it all, and the free folk have weapons, and we are trying to convince them to use them with us and not against us.

Though my hand has reflexively gone to my own weapons, I'm baffled by this turn of events. Baffled by the similarities and the differences in the mayhem both Jon and Peeta can cause. A fraction of truth versus a cleverly constructed lie.

"Hey, hey, hey," Tormund keeps saying. He's big enough to shield Jon effectively but is no closer to extinguishing the spark Jon has lit than he was half a minute ago.

Everyone is still yelling. Neither Jon nor Tormund has made any attempt to elaborate, though who can hear or even think in all this chaos? But it's a huge waste of time for both the Watch and the wildlings, and I didn't spend days at sea getting slapped by saltwater to just stand around and listen to people shout unwarranted insults and threats at the man who ended their king's screams of pain, and I'm getting more annoyed by the second.

Finally, fed up with the arguing, I roll my eyes and say, "It was a mercy killing!"

Apparently I'm loud enough, because the entire hut goes quiet and everyone turns to me, including Jon and Tormund. I am no longer a ghost in the room, safe in their shadows. Unnerved, but still defensive, I persist in a lowered voice. "Stannis had sentenced him to burn."

I get a few blank looks, see some shared glances filled with unease, but I guess the shock of me speaking up has cleared some of the tension. Loboda scoffs, nods to Tormund. "Who's the girl crow?"

"She's not a crow," Tormund answers, and subtly beckons me forward. I hesitate at first, but move a few paces to the side of the fire where he's standing. From this angle, I have a pretty good view of Jon's and Edd's expressions, and they look about as unsure as I feel right now. "She's their singer. Their 'mockingjay.' Sang one last song to Mance before he died."

I give him a warning side-eye. He better not be setting me up to sing in front of these people.

"If she's just a singer, then why is she here with them?" one man asks.

"It's as she said. Stannis, the southern king who broke our army, wanted to burn Mance alive to send us a message," says Tormund. He gestures to Jon and me. "Jon Snow and Katniss Everdeen defied that cunt's orders."

This takes me by surprise, and not just because he referred to me by my actual name. Suddenly I'm regretting speaking up in the first place. This recognition doesn't feel warranted. What is he talking about? I never fired my arrow.

"Mance had two choices, bend the knee or burn," Tormund continues. "The girl gave him a third. Came to his cell and offered him something called nightlock." He eyes me almost smugly and then emits a hearty scoff. "Nightlock! Now that's a poison if I've ever heard of one."

Nightlock. Nightlock! He might as well have repeated it a third time, because it's as if the Holo has burst in my chest, inflaming my nerves and taking away my air. I gape at him in astonishment but quickly shut my mouth, feeling more visible than ever. How did he know? Did he and Mance somehow get a chance to talk before the execution, or were their cells so close to each other that he overheard? I remember him watching, likely eavesdropping when Jon asked me about the pill, but I'd been careful not to refer to it as nightlock because Jon already—

Jon. As panic swells in my throat, I dare to look in the direction of the gathered Night's Watch brothers, unsurprised to find them staring already. Edd is understandably taken aback, but I can see by the flicker of firelight reflecting in Jon's startled eyes that the word has registered in his memory. They frisk me from a distance, searching for the pocket that holds the pill, before meeting mine again with urgent question. Pulse frantic, I turn and tune back into Tormund, who is still talking. If I have an answer, I can't convey it in glances.

"—and when the stubborn fool refused, she taught him a song that said 'fuck you' to Stannis, with a voice that made all the crows shut up to listen. Mance carried that song all the way to the stake," says Tormund. "As he burned, she raised her bow, but it was Jon Snow's arrow that put him out of his misery."

At this, Karsi shoots us a considering glance, and Loboda – well, he takes his hand off the knife at his side, which is a start. Nobody's calling for blood anymore; they all seem fixated on Tormund's speech.

"To Katniss Everdeen, Mance was a stranger. To Jon Snow, he was an enemy. But they both showed him mercy." He looks around at all the wildlings, eyes bright with determination and a severity I've only begun to see in him since we arrived at Hardhome. "What they did took courage, and that's what we need today. The courage to make peace with men we've been killing for generations."

"I lost my father, my uncle, and two brothers fighting the damn crows," Karsi snaps, and I hear pain creeping through the anger in her voice.

After the attention it got me the first time, I know I shouldn't speak up again, but I do anyway. This time more quietly. "And what if this is what it takes not to lose anyone else?"

She meets my gaze across the fire, and though she initially clenches her jaw in resentment, I see something falter in her eyes.

"We're not asking you to forget your dead," comes Jon's voice, low and somber. I turn to him, realizing it's the first he's spoken in a while, and am instantly struck by how upset he looks. The struggle on his face to wrangle in his emotions. His next words come out in a shaky yell. "I'll never forget mine!"

A thick, weighted silence blankets the room, perforated only by stray coughs and the hum of the wind, as the words make their impact. There is no one in this hut untouched by grief. Death haunts us from all sides.

"I lost fifty brothers the night that Mance attacked the Wall," Jon says to Karsi, and gives the rest of the free folk a sweeping glance. "But I'm asking you," he says, composing himself with a breath, "to think about your children now. They'll never have children of their own if we don't band together."

He looks to me here, and his resolve hardens.

"The Long Night is coming, and the dead come with it. No clan can stop them. The free folk can't stop them, the Night's Watch can't stop them, and all the southern kings can't stop them!" He's shouting now, as if fighting to be heard amongst explosions and gunfire. I feel like my camera crew, enthralled by the heat in his tone, angling myself more towards him to capture every second.

"Only together. All of us," he says softly. His eyes flick to me again for half a second before shifting to the free folk as he turns and faces them all. "And even then, it might not be enough, but at least we'll give the fuckers a fight!"

Something like amazement flutters in my chest. All around us, some of the tension has receded, and many of those in our audience are gazing upon him with various levels of respect instead of hatred. Dim Dalba, a wild-haired man who looks kind of like a smaller Tormund, gives a thoughtful nod and raises his eyebrows promptingly at the others. Even Loboda bows his head, unable to argue what's been said.

Jon has reached them. With a fiery speech and a commanding voice that Plutarch would be tripping over himself to put into propos, he has reached these people. I knew he was the Mockingjay in this world. Though I manage to hold back a smile, I can't hold back thoughts of him wearing the suit, or of having him on our side during the war in Panem. Snow against Snow.

After exchanging a few more wordless glances with the others, Karsi looks our way. "You vouch for this man, Tormund?" she asks.

Tormund shrugs. "He's prettier than both my daughters," he says, which earns him a few laughs, "but he knows how to fight. He's young, but he knows how to lead. He didn't have to come to Hardhome. He came because he needs us. And we need him."

"My ancestors would spit on me if I broke bread with a crow," Loboda mutters.

Karsi rolls her eyes. "So would mine, but fuck 'em. They're dead."

I press my lips together to suppress a laugh, which slips out as a tiny snort. Noticing, Karsi raises her eyebrows briefly but her mouth twitches in the same subtle way as Johanna's in the Quell, restrained but with the smallest hint of approval. She walks around the fire pit to our group, wooden floorboards creaking underneath her slow, purposeful steps.

"Girl crows, and a truce with the wildlings," she says with a wry smile. "Perhaps the world is coming to an end."

As mild laughter ripples through the hut, she comes to a stop in front of Jon. I try to ignore the lack of distance between them, even as she looks him up and down. She seems a few years older than him anyway. After a moment, she gives a deep sigh.

"I'll never trust a man in black," Karsi says, then peers at me speculatively and adds, "or a shadowcat." As I concede this with a slight head tilt, she turns and walks over to Tormund. "But I trust you, Tormund. If you say this is the way, we're with you."

He meets all their eyes, considers, and gives a nod. "This is the way."

"I'm with Tormund," says Dim Dalba, raising his voice amongst the building murmurs. "We stay here, we're dead men. At least with King Crow, there's a chance."

A long, low, deep-throated growl rumbles from the back of the hut, raising the hair on my neck because it sounds exactly like a bear. When I look up, following the sound, I remember the giant and relax for all of two seconds. The momentary peace of mind surprises me. No worries, Katniss, it's not a bear, it's just the giant in the room!

"Tormund," Wun Wun says, in precisely the kind of voice I would expect from a gigantic bear. His vote of approval, if I'm translating correctly. Tormund graciously bows his head to show respect, or to sidestep on the eye contact. Either way, smart move.

There's a flash of steel as Loboda brandishes a deadly-looking ax, which catches the light coming in from the ceiling.

"Keep that new life you want to give us," he says, his tone cool and dripping with disdain. He walks around the fire pit, ax in hand; I bristle as he approaches Jon. "And keep your glass, King Crow."

Jon closes his eyes, and I see it again. The look of resignation, now a shadow of heartfelt discouragement cresting over his face. My heart gives a twinge of sympathy as I recognize this feeling. It's the same thing I felt, besides the sledgehammer of pain to my ribs, when I got shot in District 2. The despair that comes from realizing you can't reach everyone.

The floor creaks as Loboda turns back to the free folk. "As soon as you get on his ships, they're gonna slit your throats and dump your bodies to the bottom of the Shivering Sea." He points to Jon. "That's our enemy. That has always been our enemy."

As he starts for the door, I feel a surge of anger rising in me. What started out as a spark of indignation on Jon's behalf soon flares into annoyance and then disbelief. The heat he took from his brothers that remain at Castle Black, the efforts he made to get the ships from Stannis and sail them here, the desperation in his voice during his impassioned speech, and this man has the nerve to not only spit on his offer but call his intentions impure. I won't have it.

He's walking away, and now I understand better why the rebels in Thirteen reacted as they did when Peeta publicly called for a ceasefire. A cursory glance around the room shows that doubt is starting to spread like a virus. A frown, a shared look, uncertain shuffling and movement. Thanks to Loboda, the good that Jon has done threatens to unravel. I get the feeling that if I let him go out that door, many more will follow.

"So you're kneeling for death?" I say. It's the only thing I can think of that might stop him.

He does stop. Turns around slowly, gives me a dark look. "Kneeling for death?" His voice sounds dangerous.

"Katniss," Jon says in warning.

I ignore him and take a step forward, locking eyes with Loboda. "You stay here, you let the Others take you. You become slaves in the White Walkers' army. You let Mance die for nothing," I say, surprising myself with how frustrated this makes me. "He refused Stannis, and the nightlock, because he was willing to burn to keep the free folk free. He braved the flames, and you're too afraid to face a few crows?"

Loboda moves a couple of paces toward me, purposefully holding his ax where I can see it. "I'm not afraid of crows."

"You're more scared of them than you are of the dead, or else you'd have no problem getting on those ships," I counter. "Do you really think we'd sail a dozen of them all the way here just to kill you? Consider what's at stake if you're wrong. Are you willing to bet your people's lives on your fear?"

I search his eyes, somewhat satisfied to see a hint of hesitation in them, and turn to face the other skeptics.

"If Jon Snow wanted you dead, he could've stayed south where it's safe. But he's not foolish enough to think we can do this without each other. Neither was Mance Rayder. Why else did he spend years bringing all of you together? Why else did you follow him? To get beyond the Wall?" I look back to Loboda and give a small, incredulous shake of my head. "Now Castle Black is holding the gate wide open for you, and you're turning away from it like some bored housecat!"

An eyebrow lift from Loboda, a handful of muffled snorts and chuckles from various parts of the hut. I think of Buttercup's incessant wailing and fickleness at doors and wonder how universal it is. They may just be humoring me. Or I may be losing them, especially if I just insulted a clan's leader. I hear Haymitch's voice in my head, urging me to try for some sensitivity.

"I come from a place called District Twelve. There used to be eight thousand of us living there," I tell him. "And when the enemy came for my district, the survivors weren't the ones who hid in their homes or the ones who ran up the road. They were the eight hundred people who made it past the fence that was built to keep us in. We'd been told all our lives the woods were perilous, but they turned out to be our salvation." A lump grows in my throat as I remember the decomposing remains left in the road, the bodies buried in the Meadow, imagine them rising again and chasing after me like the ones in the Haunted Forest. Swallowing hard, I say in a low, pressing tone, "Whatever fate you think is waiting for you on those ships, I promise you it's better than the one we both know awaits you here."

A fate worse than death, I think to myself. And that's when it hits me. My forehead furrows in realization as a memory resurfaces of Mance humming the melody.

The woods, the Wall, the ships... they're all the hanging tree. The place that might seem like death, or a tool or weapon of the enemy, but in truth is their greatest means of escape. The Wall is where Mance wanted them to run so they could be free. The ships, which in Loboda's eyes look so noose-shaped, are Jon's plea to the free folk like the dead man in the song.

Come with us. Fight with us. Don't let them have you.

"The Night's Watch is not your enemy," I insist, approaching Loboda another step. "The free folk aren't ours. From now on, our enemy is death, and we're not going to feed you to it! Because that's what it wants – for us to destroy each other. To watch us kill ourselves off, and then it can step in and take control over what's left." Angling myself toward those who might follow him, I do a sweeping gesture to indicate our surroundings. "Will you stay here and bend the knee to that enemy? Or will you take your chances on those ships and stand with us? When you finally come south to fight, will it be as wights? Or as the free folk?"

Pulse racing, I take a breath to calm myself, and bring myself back around to face Loboda, who's yet to break his stony silence.

"Mance's death has to mean something," I say, softer but no less fervent. "He made his choice. Now what's yours?"

His dark brown eyes narrow as he studies me, staring hard enough to bore holes into my head, but standing so close with his ax that he could take it off with one swift swing. It's at neck level, and I can't tell if he's looking at mine because my burn scars are visible or because he's teasing the thought of giving it a good slice. I glance at the blade for only a second, then lift my chin and stare back at him expectantly, refusing to be intimidated by his towering form.

Breaking eye contact, Loboda looks past me for a moment, appears to consider something. Then he shakes his head and switches his grip on the ax handle, letting it slip so suddenly that it makes me flinch, and I hear several short gasps coming from nearby. But he only scoffs and turns away, making for the exit again.

"Crow wife's too mouthy," he says as he strides to the door.

My lips tighten with embarrassment at the sound of men's laughter, though it's only a low rumble. The few who chuckled soon identify themselves by following him out. Five, six, seven of the skeptics from earlier resume weaving their way around the fire, through the crowd, and out of the hut. It's not a lot, barely a sliver of the people in the room, but it's a bit of a blow to my pride. Proof I'm not the same Mockingjay I was a year ago. I'm too long-winded, too rusty, and underneath my shadowskin I'm trembling with adrenaline and trying to catch my breath as inconspicuously as possible. But when you've just made a huge spectacle of yourself in front of dozens of wildlings, inconspicuous is a lot to ask. The seventh hasn't even stepped out yet and I feel the attention return to me almost immediately.

As the door begins to close, Karsi comes up beside me and gives a sympathetic snort.

"Know what your first mistake was?" she says, and when I glance her way, her eyes are more weary than unkind. "Trying to reason with a fucking Thenn."