Chapter Eleven: The Prisoner

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. "Kept 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 greying hair and a weathered face, and laughter lines at the corner of his mouth. I see the men of District Twelve, 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."