A/N: Pardon the long wait! Long chapter, had to split it in two. At least that means there'll definitely be one next week. Thanks so much for the follows, faves, and reviews! I'm encouraged that people are enjoying it so far. :D
Chapter Twelve: Make Friends
Jon looks disappointed but less surprised at the news that Mance has once again refused his life. But before he can say anything, another voice chimes in.
"You sing very beautifully."
I turn to find the source, a young girl between Posy's and Prim's age with a striking appearance. For the most part, she is fresh-faced, except her left cheek resembles the camouflage that Peeta used to blend in with the rocks and mud – a grey, flaky texture, almost like scales stretching from her forehead to her chin. In her case, I don't think it's paint, just scarred flesh. Her hair is long and dark like mine, but her eyes shine bright and blue like Prim's as they gaze up at me. What really sells the likeness for me is the fact that she's holding Buttercup securely in her arms, and he seems happy about it.
"Thank you," I say, doing my best to swallow down the emotions she's shaken loose. In a world where the dead rise and roam and kings sentence people to burn, everything inside me warns to stay away from someone like her. "I'm a little embarrassed you heard that. My mother would say it's too scary for children."
"My mother would say so, too. But I've heard worse songs from my father's men at the camps," the girl says, and strokes Buttercup's fur. He's purring shamelessly. "Gilly says this is your cat."
"His name is Buttercup. He belonged to my sister," I tell her. "I look after him now, but he's a mean old thing. Never really liked anyone but her."
"Really?" She looks at the happy little furball in her arms. "He's been nothing but nice to me. He even came up and said hello. Isn't that right, Buttercup?"
He nuzzles into her chest with his spoiled kitten meow, and I fight an urge to roll my eyes at him. Of course. I see how it is.
Instead, I trade an eyeroll for a smile. Buttercup has only seen exactly what I see. "Well, he does seem to like you," I say. "If he's letting you hold him like this, you must be someone special."
She beams back at me, a sweet sunny warmth in this dreary place, like the primrose I found in the forest at the end of winter earlier this year. I'm wondering what flower might share her name, when a familiar silky voice makes both of us lose our smiles.
"She is Princess Shireen of the House Baratheon," says the auburn-haired woman, who has appeared nearby. "Her father is Stannis Baratheon, the one true king of the Seven Kingdoms."
The girl, Shireen, looks her way with a slight frown. I don't think she cares for this woman either. I decide to steal her attention back. "Princess? I've never met a princess before," I say. "I don't even know what I should be calling you. Your Grace, or Your Highness…?"
"Just Princess, or Shireen is fine," she responds humbly. "What should I call you?"
"I'm Katniss. Katniss Everdeen," I tell her.
Her smile returns. "Kat-niss," she repeats, and gives a small giggle. "I'm giving Kat back her cat. That's funny."
"No one's ever called me Kat before," I say with a laugh. Even Jon wrinkles his nose at the nickname. "Though an old friend used to call me Catnip, because I said my name so quiet that he misheard me. And because a lynx, a much bigger cat, kept following me around in the woods, all hungry for handouts."
Shireen giggles again. "Are you sure he wasn't hungry for you?"
"Nah, we had an understanding," I say with a shrug. "He was good company, too. He didn't hiss at me all the time like this one."
"Come along, Princess," the woman says. She's still standing there, hands clasped neatly in front of her dress. "Your mother and father are waiting for you."
"I'll be there in a moment," Shireen tells her. "I need to return Buttercup first."
The woman gives a small nod, then drifts away, her eyes hardly leaving me. When Jon and Shireen return their gazes to me, I look to them for help. "Who is she, anyway?"
"The Lady Melisandre," Jon explains. "She arrived yesterday with King Stannis and his army."
"Ser Davos calls her the Red Woman," says Shireen, holding Buttercup just a bit tighter. "She's a priestess for the Lord of Light. Father says she's going to help him win the Iron Throne."
"She gives me the creeps," I say, keeping my voice low. "She keeps looking at me like she… knows me."
Jon scoffs lightly. "Yes. She does that," he says. Probably he's also been on the other end of it.
"She says she can see visions in the flames," Shireen murmurs. Then she looks over at me, shifting Buttercup in her arms. "I should go. Mother doesn't like to be kept waiting." Buttercup meows sadly as she sets him down, earning him a few comforting pets. "I know, little friend. I have to go. Katniss will be wanting you back. I hope we'll see each other again."
"Sure, you can play with him whenever you want," I offer, after successfully stifling a snort at the thought of me being desperate for his return. "I actually don't need him back just yet. It seems like he'd rather stay with you."
Her blue eyes grow round with delight. "I can keep him with me?" she asks. "For now, I mean."
"Just make sure he doesn't get eaten," I tell her.
That's apparently the wrong thing to say. A look of pensive worry and sadness flashes across her face as she picks him back up and hugs him protectively. Then she recognizes I'm half-kidding and manages a smile. "I'll keep him safe, I promise," she says. "If Mother and Father allow him to stay."
She thanks me and says goodbye, hurrying off with her arms full of Buttercup. I think I've just made friends with a princess.
"That was kind of you," Jon says quietly.
I shrug it off. "Well, one girl's trash is another girl's treasure."
He watches Shireen go. "I think you like him more than you let on," he replies. "You brought him with you. You seem protective of him."
"Please, I tried to drown him the moment my sister brought him home," I counter, folding my arms as I watch Buttercup's ugly mashed-in face disappear from view. "He was a scrawny little runt covered in fleas, and we could barely feed ourselves. But Prim cried and begged me to let him stay. If anything happens to him, I just know she'll haunt me forever with her tears."
"Ghost was the runt as well," says Jon.
"Ghost?" I gape at him in disbelief. "The runt?"
"A whole litter of direwolves, still trying to suckle at their dead mother," Jon continues, reminiscent despite looking briefly amused at my reaction. "Father wanted to give them the mercy of a quick death, but my brother Bran pled for their lives. Now look at him."
I'm so lost in my thoughts, imagining a pack of wolves bigger than Ghost, that I almost miss Jon gesturing as if to say, "come here." The enormous white direwolf plods toward us, panting happily, his tongue lolling out of his massive jaws.
I take a step back, feeling my pulse start to race. I have never been this close to a living wolf before – only the mutts from my first Games. Without thinking, my eyes flicker to Ghost's – red, like Melisandre's – and for a moment I'm there in the arena again, seeing human eyes glaring back at me. A shuddered gasp escapes my lips as I back up another step, panicking without my bow and quiver. My heel slips on snow and I reach out blindly for something to catch myself on just as Peeta grasps my arm to steady me.
No, not Peeta. My grip tightens on the wooden banister, grounding me to Castle Black.
Peeta isn't the one holding onto my arm. It's Jon Snow.
"Are you alright?" he asks.
I catch my breath, trying to regulate it, slow it down. "I'm fine," I get out, my voice pathetic and small. "I just… had a bad experience with wolves once."
"He won't hurt you," Jon says, releasing my arm and giving Ghost some love. "Not unless you hurt me. Direwolves are loyal beasts."
Watching Ghost nuzzle his hand, I'm exceedingly grateful I left my weapons in my room. Firing an arrow at his beloved wolf during one of my arena flashbacks would not score me any points with Jon. I sense a strong connection between these two, perhaps even stronger than the one between Prim and Buttercup.
I know what Haymitch would tell me to do in this situation. Make friends.
"Can I pet him?" I ask, then cringe at the way it sounds. "Or is that too…"
He gets up and nods to me, encouraging me to go ahead. Still cautious, I take a glove off and crouch down carefully in front of Ghost, feeling his eyes on me and his hot breath brushing my face. He licks his chops and I almost jump back, but he remains gentle and patient. Or, at least, he hasn't bitten anything off yet.
His fur is so sleek and white. Gale would probably say he'd make a good pelt. I can't help thinking so myself, but I try to get the thought out of my head before I pet him. It seems rude to touch an animal's fur while entertaining such thoughts, let alone an animal belonging to someone else, and also I'm irrationally terrified that this creature might be able to read my mind.
Pushing away my thoughts and fears, I slowly lift an outstretched hand to Ghost. He moves forward and nudges it, accepting the invitation while offering his own.
The breath I was holding escapes me in a cloud of relief, but the surrealness of this situation does not. I do as Jon did and stroke the side of his head – his giant head that could take mine off in one bite. But Ghost does not snap, or even bare his teeth. I'm trying to look more at his snout than his eyes, but when I do raise mine to his, they look... benevolent. Or at least, it's as if we've come to a silent agreement that neither of us wants to eat each other. Once we've reached that point, my muscles relax, and I'm able to focus more on the luxurious feeling of stroking a wolf's beautiful coat than my own heartbeat. I'm still exhilarated, but now it's comforting to both of us.
Ghost and I are still bonding when Jon speaks up from behind me. "What did you and Mance talk about in there?"
I slow my affectionate scratches, though Ghost is still curious and hoping for more. "Well, I thanked him. For the lodging and everything," I say, allowing Ghost to sniff my palm. "Told him the cat drank his gross milk; he thought that was kind of funny."
Jon chuckles appreciatively, with a small scoff like he knows exactly what I'm talking about. It's a proper northern drink, as I told your friend Jon Snow, Mance had said. I'm guessing he's already had the pleasure.
"Then I helpfully reminded him that burning alive doesn't feel so hot," I continue, "so I offered him something to make his last night a bit less painful, but he refused."
There's a beat that lasts a few seconds too long, bordering on awkward silence. I play back what I said in my head and turn in realization to see Jon regarding me with flustered surprise, his eyebrows raised in a question he doesn't want to ask.
"Not that!" I say, giving him a scandalized look. Though the resulting blush on his face makes me want to crack up.
He relaxes, embarrassed but mollified by my grin. "What, then?"
I bite my lip and resume loving on Ghost, if only to turn away so Jon doesn't notice my hesitation. "Just some medicine I brought with me from Panem," I answer, edging backward when Ghost bumps his nose a little too close to the pocket that holds my secret. "It could have spared him a lot of torture, but apparently if he took it, he'd be kneeling to death as well as Stannis, whatever that means."
"That sounds like him," Jon says, sounding morose as ever.
I'm relieved when he doesn't ask any follow-up questions about it. There's a part of me that wants to be upfront and honest with him, since he's responsible for me or something and I'm already withholding the truth about his uncle. On the other hand, knowing that the new girl who will be working in the kitchen now and then is in possession of poison might not make him rest easy.
"So, I wanted to know if there was anything else I could do," I say, giving Ghost a final scratch before standing up, "and he asked me to sing."
"Interesting choice for a final song," Jon comments.
I shrug, looking over at the pyre. "I guess it was kind of tasteless. But it was the first one I thought of."
"Where did you hear it?" Jon asks. "Panem, I imagine."
"My father taught it to me when I was young," I confirm, watching the men build. "Too young to know what it really meant. I was making actual rope necklaces for myself and my little sister when my mother caught me. That's right around the time she banned us from ever singing it again." Jon chuckles, since in fairness it's an understandable reaction to such macabre behavior from a child. "It was forbidden in our district, anyway," I add, turning to him with a sheepish smirk. "Too rebellious."
"That's one word for it," Jon replies, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. I can't help but laugh, encouraged by the mirth that breaks through his solemn exterior. When the severe winter in him thaws, there's a glint in his eyes that sparkles more like silver than steel grey, and they crinkle when he smiles, a smile that's almost as sunny as Peeta's—
And with that thought, something splinters. Deep in my chest, or maybe in the air between us. I see it on Jon's face, too, as his humor fades and his eyes open a fraction wider. We both seem to step back at the same time. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the pyre again and envision the dead girl from last night burning on top of it. We both mumble excuses of having somewhere else to be and hasten away in opposite directions.
His wounds are raw, even rawer than mine. I'm not flirting, I don't flirt, and it's not like I'm trying to make something of whatever connection we've made – connections over dead people – but we probably shouldn't get this close. Or at the very least I should tread cautiously.
That moment with the wolf mutt flashback... I'm already associating him with Peeta, which is dangerous territory. It's been less than a year since he died, since Snow's lizard mutts took his head, so how could I even consider replacing him with Jon?
I can just hear it now. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am in love with a man named Snow...
The thought makes me shudder. I'm not in love with him, thank goodness. Even thinking that line to myself wards off the idea, because I'll only be able to picture an old man wearing a rose that reminds me of death rather than romance.
But as far as Snows go, this one is... inoffensive, to say the least. To me, he's just Jon.
That's how Gilly and Sam refer to him when I meet back up with them to go to the kitchens. They're eager to change the subject, though, which I welcome. Except it's to confirm it was me singing to Mance earlier, and mention that Ser Alliser and Stannis were also a part of the audience in the courtyard. Stannis has a harder face than Ser Alliser's, so they're unsure of his feelings on the matter. They only saw him speak to Ser Alliser and Ser Davos before walking away. But the brothers of the Night's Watch liked what they heard.
"I didn't know you could sing," Gilly says, briefly tending to the fussing bundle of baby she's got next to her.
"Do you know any other songs?" Sam chimes in, and chuckles nervously. "Songs that are, perhaps, not so grim."
"I know a few," I say with a shrug. "Can't really use The Hanging Tree as a lullaby when you're trying to put your little sister to sleep."
"I only ask because, well, Pyp was the singer here at Castle Black before he died," says Sam. "Now there's talk among the brothers that Ser Alliser should let you stay. They're saying the Night's Watch could use a songbird."
"Not just a songbird," Gilly corrects, turning her smile from Sam to me. "A mockingjay."
I return her smile awkwardly, not knowing what to say. The title "mockingjay" even follows me over to this world. Though I suppose I walked into that one by making the bird my sigil. And singing a last song for Mance before he dies, just as I did with Rue.
That's how it always starts, with one little song.
The baby fusses some more, rocking the portable wooden cradle that Gilly's placed on the table. "Little Sam wants to hear a song too," Gilly says, granting him a loving touch. "Would you sing something for him?"
I gaze down at Little Sam, watching his small feet kick through his blankets. One of my earliest memories is of being introduced to newborn Prim, hearing her bleat like a little lamb, listening to my father soothe her with lullabies. Even at age four, I knew she was something precious. Going by the tug on my heartstrings, Little Sam threatens to be something precious too.
Oh, well. If this is the only expectation they'll have of me as their Mockingjay, I've lucked out. And as it happens, I have just the song for him.
"Deep in the meadow, under the willow…"