A/N: I know this is a long one (to be fair, some of it is lyrics!), but it's one I've been looking forward to for months, and I am just so pleased that I get to post this particular chapter on the one-year anniversary of the day I started writing this fic (or at least saved the doc for the first chapter). So, happy anniversary to A Song of Ash and Arrows! Feels like just yesterday I was scribbling variations of the summary in my notebook. Also, song list is in the author's note at the chapter's end.

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Promise

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 conspiratorially, "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 outlier 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 been distant, 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 did ever 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 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 Twelve 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 Twelve'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 stifled 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.'" A small, bashful smile tugs at her lips. "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 cousin Lucy 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.

A/N: Thanks to all new faves, follows, and (re)views! ZainR, glad you're loving the Jon/Katniss developments as much as I am!

Songs featured here are "Deep in the Meadow" (THG), "All is Found" (Evan Rachel Wood, or Kacey Musgraves), "The Valley Song" (Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes), and "Safe and Sound" (Taylor Swift feat. Civil Wars). For the Meadow song, Valley song, and Safe and Sound, I just want to say I've been listening to Maiah Wynne's Lucy Gray covers repeatedly for the past couple weeks, as inspiration, so I'd recommend giving her a listen. And I like to imagine the Covey version of "All is Found" is basically The Hound & The Fox's version on YouTube. Or, at least that's what Katniss's parents were like when they sang it together.