Chapter Thirty-One: The Tribute


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 distaste. "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 11. One of the poorer outlier districts," I answer. "Usually only the Career districts had volunteers. That's where most of the victors came from. Districts 1 through 4. 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."

"What?" Jon says, baffled. "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 sleeping syrup?"

Jon huffs out a scoff, looking a mixture of amused and resigned. "All right, now where did you get sleeping 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 cheeks burn. 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 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, incredulous, 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.


A/N: This is late and long, but it's finished, so l'm going to go ahead and impulse-post right now and go to bed. (Or, rather, listen to Lucy Gray covers on YT instead of editing or sleeping.) Thanks to all new faves/follows/(re)views!