Chapter Seventeen: The Election
I'm so distracted by my rage towards Melisandre that I almost pass Jon and Sam completely without realizing it. Sam's turned to face Jon, but he must've noticed me out of the corner of his eye because he calls out to me.
"Oh! Katniss!" he says. I stop abruptly, whirling so fast that my braid nearly gets me in the face like a whip. He and Jon are standing by the staircase to the dining hall, waiting to go in. "How did it go with the Red Woman? You aren't in any trouble, are you?"
Jon's usual brooding expression intensifies at Sam's question, silently adding to it himself. In answer, I give a shrug and a sigh.
"Not really. She just made a bunch of cryptic comments and talked about my sigil. And my homelife in Panem," I say. Sam nods, probably having heard Melisandre call me the Mockingjay in front of everyone, and I look to Jon. "Honestly, I'd much rather hear how it went with Stannis."
"Jon was just telling me about it!" Sam says. "He – oh." He stops and looks at Jon expectantly, letting him be the one to share.
Going by Sam's upbeat energy, it can't have gone too badly. "He didn't bring the hammer down too hard?" I ask.
Jon pauses, regarding me for a moment. "He offered to make me a Stark."
The words replay three times in my head before I finally make sense of them. When I do, my mouth drops open in half a gasp.
"What?" I breathe out. Sam's eyes have gone wide; apparently Jon hadn't told him that part yet. "He can do that?"
"Kings have the power to legitimize bastards," Sam explains to me with an excited smile, before turning it towards Jon. "What happened, what did he say?"
"He said he doesn't punish bravery, he rewards it," Jon answers, the corners of his mouth curving up as he laughs like he still can't believe it. "After he showed me the message from Lyanna Mormont, I told him northerners are only loyal to their own. He asked me to give him the North. I told him I couldn't because I was a Snow."
His eyes flicker to me; no doubt, the name has added weight after last night.
"'Kneel before me,' he said," Jon continues in a hushed voice, so that only the three of us can hear. "'Lay your sword at my feet. Pledge me your service, and you'll rise again as Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell.'"
"Wow," I say softly. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," he says.
My thoughts begin to race at the idea. Jon Stark is one thing, but Lord of Winterfell sounds pretty damn prestigious. Maybe Stannis isn't all that bad… for someone who had a man burnt at the stake last night.
"Are you two going in or not?" a wizened old man asks, butting in. Sam and Jon glance over and notice the crowd (or sad excuse for a line) on the stairs and around the entrance to the dining hall has thinned. The three of us start to move, but the man snarls, "Not you, girl. Night's Watch only."
"Just need to ask Sam where I can find Gilly," I reply.
Sam directs me to her before he and Jon climb the steps, and I wander off in search of her. I'd agreed to meet up with her later anyway to help with chores and Little Sam and keep her company while the election is taking place. As I walk, the name Jon Stark trails after me like a persistent tracker jacker. As do my words from last night.
Jon Snow. The name I've known him as for one whole day. I could never marry a Snow.
Well, I think to myself, so much for that.
It's not as if it's the only reason. Like I said, I don't want to fall in love again. It doesn't come easy to me. And it's too soon after Peeta and way too soon for him after Ygritte. And then there's the Night's Watch vow. He can never marry or have kids, and I never wanted to, which works out perfectly. It's just kind of funny that something like this happens mere hours after I said that.
I'm happy for him, anyway. I get the impression that the surname Snow has been a real source of shame for him. Ironically, it sounds almost decent with his first name. Jon Snow. Like one word. Jon Snow. Jon Stark. I find myself mouthing both versions along the way, comparing their sounds and the feel of them on my tongue.
With Coriolanus Snow, the "s" in his first name carrying to the "s" in "Snow" sounds, rather fittingly, like the hiss of a snake. "Jon Snow" is a bit more musical, simple, even pleasant.
Still wouldn't want it as my last name, though. In my world or this one. Thorne's less than endearing nickname for Jon, Lord Snow – he says it with the exact same vitriol that Gale would. Lord Stark, on the other hand...
Ugh, Thorne. I hope he doesn't win the election. That would be bad for all of us. I imagine Thread as Panem's president and give a dismal shudder. But the thought of Panem reminds me to turn off my camera to conserve power.
I locate Gilly and Little Sam and convince her to move her work outdoors. It's chilly, yes, but there's fresh air and all the men are in the dining hall, so outside is free rein for us. We sit at a little table in the east courtyard, far enough away from the hall so that Little Sam and the Night's Watch men won't be disturbed by each other's cries, but close enough that I could sneak up and eavesdrop if I wanted to. And I do want to, but for now I'm tending to Little Sam while Gilly's hands are busy.
Little Sam's not much of a handful. He smiles at me and grabs curiously at my braid, but doesn't tug too hard, and doesn't wail in protest when I get it free. My fingers, and his own toes, are suitable substitutes.
"He likes you," Gilly replies with a smile when I point this out to her. "You're good with children."
Am I? It's never really occurred to me. Up until this year, my interactions with little kids have been influenced by the knowledge that they've only got a few peaceful years left. Or, at least, a few years until hunger isn't their only worry.
"My friends Finnick and Annie just had a baby a couple of months ago. I got to see him before I left, so I've had some recent experience," I say, then give Little Sam a playful tickle. He responds with shining eyes and a merry laugh. "He's very agreeable, I'll give him that."
Just like his…
A thought hits me, and I turn to Gilly. "Hey – The Night's Watch vow says they can't get married or have children, right?"
Gilly sneaks a look at me out of the corner of her eye. "Right," she says slowly, drawing the word out, then smiles for some reason as she turns her attention back to her work.
"But what about you and Sam?" I ask.
Her secret smile disappears and confusion sets in instead. Her head jerks as a deer's would after I've accidentally stepped on a twig. "What about me and Sam?" she asks, eyes enormous.
Have I said the wrong thing? I press on, "Did you two just have Little Sam before he joined the Night's Watch? Or… I don't know, how did that work out?"
"Sam isn't Little Sam's father," Gilly says, baffled. A sound of surprise has barely passed my lips before she adds, "Craster was."
"Craster?" I repeat. "I thought he was your father."
The look of silence she gives me says it all. These two things are not mutually exclusive.
"Oh," I say stupidly. Then it hits me again, harder, and my eyebrows jump upwards. "Oh!" This is a lot harder than girl talk. What do you say to something like that? "I'm sorry. He did that to his own daughter?"
"He did that to all of us," Gilly says, returning to her sewing. "My sisters and me. He was our husband. He'd marry us and we were supposed to give him more daughters."
I'm disturbed, but I try not to show it too much. Even though Gilly is currently looking everywhere else. "And his sons?" I ask, gazing over at Little Sam.
Gilly's quiet for a moment. "He didn't have any use for sons," she says after a while.
"So, what did he do with them?" I might be pushing it, but morbid curiosity won't let me keep my mouth closed.
"Left them in the woods," says Gilly. "As offerings for the gods."
Healthy, thriving Little Sam babbles and grabs for my braid again, as it sways near his reach. "But not this one," I murmur. It occurs to me that Gilly once had to worry about her own child's odds. The odds of it being a girl, or a boy. The odds of life, or death. Some life, considering what the girls had in store for them.
Gilly nods. "Sam made sure of that," she replies, a tentative smile creeping back to her lips. "He ran to me as soon as the mutiny started, and the three of us escaped in the night. Then, when a White Walker came to take my baby, Sam killed it with dragonglass. It's because of him that I got to keep my son."
"That's why you named him Sam," I say, realizing.
Her smile blossoms as she sneaks a fond glance at her son. "I can only hope he'll grow to be as brave, and as smart, and as kind."
I decide to keep my own smile to myself. Maybe I was wrong about Sam's relation to Little Sam, but I highly doubt that I'm wrong about him and Gilly. When she talks about him, she lights up the way my mother used to when my father came home from a hunt.
We keep working – or she works and I look after Little Sam but help where I can – while listening to the noise coming from the dining hall. Eventually the distorted chatter turns to scattered shouts of approval and the sound of fists and cups banging on tables.
"I wish we could hear what they're saying in there," Gilly says wistfully.
I consider the building for a moment, with its welcoming staircase and open windows. "Who says we can't?" I ask.
Gilly quickly realizes what I'm thinking. "You mean listen in?" she exclaims in a low whisper. "We're not part of the Watch. I don't think they'll take too kindly to it if they catch us spying."
"This concerns us, too," I say. "We're directly affected by the outcome. I think we ought to know what we may or may not be in for."
Her expression grows sullen and dark. "If Ser Alliser wins… he'll send us away," she says, inspecting Sam in his wooden cradle. He's fallen asleep, blissfully unaware of his mother's fears. "I don't know what Little Sam and I will do if that happens."
I falter, softening at the sight of them. "You could come with me," I say. "He'll send me away too, and Westeros is pretty new to me. I can hunt and defend myself and all, but I could probably use an ally that doesn't walk on all fours."
The offer brings a startled but happy grin to Gilly's face, then it fades away bit by bit as she gazes past me to the dining hall. "I can't leave Sam," she says softly.
"Then let's make sure we're getting a commander who says you don't have to," I reply without hesitation.
She looks confused at first, then blushes in understanding and gives the sleeping Sam an affectionate touch. "You go. I'll be the lookout."
I give a small nod. "Don't worry, I'll be discreet," I promise her.
Sneaking up to the dining hall, I pause in front of the wooden staircase and consider my options. Past experiences tell me some of the steps are decidedly creaky. I could take my shoes off and go at a light tread, or I could scamper up the steps when the crowd inside is loudest, or I could try to jump up and pull myself up from the side. All of these options come with a lot of risk. I only have barrels and snow piles to give me any sort of boost.
Still, climbing is what I'm good at, so I move away from the center staircase and survey the height of the wooden walkway. Then, when the men inside get boisterous again, I take off my shoes and test the sturdiness of one of the barrels. It holds my weight, so I'm able to hoist myself up and clamber through the gap in the railing on my stomach. Pulling myself very carefully to my feet, I stay at a crouch and come up against the wall between windows.
Rising slowly, I press my back against the stone and peek in sideways through a window. All clear. I look back to Gilly and hold a finger to my lips. She does the same, some of her anxiety transforming to amusement.
Maester Aemon's familiar croak drifts out the window to me. "…triangular tokens count for Ser Alliser Thorne, the square tokens for Ser Denys Mallister. Each—"
"Maester Aemon!" Sam's voice rings out, earnest but more insistent than I've ever heard it. There's a chorus of chair creaks as presumably the whole room turns to him. My heart races on his behalf; I know exactly what he's about to say.
"Samwell Tarly," Aemon acknowledges him. "Go on."
It's Sam, I mouth to Gilly, gesturing subtly toward the window. I don't know for sure if she can read my lips, but he may have projected his voice enough, because Gilly's face breaks into a beam of intrigued pride.
"Sam the Slayer," comes another voice, bringing with it a ripple of mocking laughter. I frown, trying to attach the voice to a face. "Another wildling lover just like his friend, Jon Snow. How's your lady love, Slayer?" More laughter.
Sam's voice softens but stays steady. "Her name is Gilly," he says. "Brother Slynt knows her quite well. They cowered together in the larder during the battle for the Wall."
Now I'm the one grinning with pride. Sam has turned the laughter back on Slynt. I think I know the name, and it goes with the jowly bald man who follows Thorne around and helps him scowl at Gilly and me.
"Lies!" Slynt calls out in anger, barely heard over the room's jeers.
"A wildling girl, a baby," an encouraged Sam continues, inciting more guffaws, "and Lord Janos. I found him there after the battle was over, in a puddle of his own making."
The resulting laughter is so loud that it easily covers up my own – involuntary breathy snickers that I'm still quick to muffle with my hand. It carries on for a while, and Gilly sends me a questioning look. In return, I give her a thumbs-up. Does that mean the same thing here? He's doing great, I mouth to her.
"Whilst Lord Janos was hiding with the women and children, Jon Snow was leading," says Sam, and I tune back in, because I'm honestly curious about this part. "Ser Alliser fought bravely, it is true, but when he was wounded, it was Jon who saved us. He... took charge of the Wall's defense. He killed the Magnar of the Thenns. He went north to deal with Mance Rayder. Knowing it almost certainly meant his own death."
Silence falls inside the dining hall. Luckily, I'm already holding my breath. Was it him I heard shouting orders that night? The "deal with Mance Rayder" part plays back to me; apparently he's been on a suicide mission of his own. I guess Mance was his own President Snow, loathe as I am to compare the two. Then again, I didn't know Mance that well. That makes me feel slightly better about letting Jon be the one to shoot him instead of me.
"Before that," Sam says softly, as I strain to hear him, "he led the mission to avenge Lord Commander Mormont. Mormont himself chose Jon to be his steward. He saw something in Jon, and now we've all seen it too. He may be young, but he's the commander we turned to when the night was darkest."
Throughout his entire speech about Jon, the room's been so still and quiet that I've stayed frozen in place, knowing that the crackle of the fire inside would never drown out an ill-timed creak or bump or sneeze. The whole time, I've been wondering what the silence means. Agreement, or dissent?
Now I get my answer, as the room fills with shouts of approval, applause, and thumping of cups against wood. It may not come from all sides, but the men who agree are vocal, enthusiastic. I'm sending an encouraging smile Gilly's way, when suddenly I hear the familiar lizard mutt hiss and flatten against the wall.
"I can't argue with any of that," says Thorne, quieting the room once more. "But who does Jon Snow want to command? The Night's Watch? Or the wildlings? Everyone knows he loved a wildling girl. Spoke with Mance Rayder many times. What would've happened in that tent between those two old friends if Stannis's army hadn't come along? We all saw him put the King Beyond the Wall out of his misery. Do you want to choose a man who has fought the wildlings all his life, or a man who makes love to them?"
I blush, for Jon's sake but also because I think I've heard too much. That's what I get for eavesdropping. Honestly, though… cheap shot.
There's a dead and almost accusatory silence that follows, which doesn't do much for my hopes except sink them. Finally, Maester Aemon breaks it with an announcement: "It is time."
Chairs creak and scrape as the men leave their seats to begin the vote, a clear signal for me to leave my hiding spot. I duck down again and deftly slip through the gap in the railing, lowering myself onto the barrel before jumping down and returning to Gilly.
"What did you hear?" she asks in a low whisper.
I bite at the inside of my lip. "Sam made a really convincing argument for Jon," I say.
For a moment, her face lights up with amazement and pride. Then she studies mine and sees it's not quite at her level of enthusiasm. "But…?" she says knowingly.
I puff out a slow sigh. "But then Thorne brought up Mance and the wildling girl."
Gilly allows herself a few seconds to look dismayed before she gets back to work. "Well," she says quietly, "maybe it will be Ser Denys Mallister."
"Maybe," I agree, and take an armful of cloth.
Even with my alleged "talent" in fashion design, I'm no brilliant seamstress in the making, but I do help Gilly get done faster. Afterward, I carry Little Sam while Gilly delivers the finished products and returns the sewing materials. I figure it should be the other way around, but she thought I might want to hold him, and my reservations weren't strong enough to make me say no. Luckily, I held Little Finn once or twice, so I'm not too rusty, and he stays peaceful and content in my arms as we walk. We've gotten so deep into a conversation about our experiences travelling to the Wall that I barely notice she hasn't had me hand him over to her on our way back.
What I do notice is the triumphant cheer that rises from the dining hall just as we're passing in front of it, followed by applause so thunderous it could make the stone walls burst. Gilly and I come to a halt, watching the building as if banners will drop down and unfurl with the victor's face on it. Is it possible that people like Thorne that much...?
And then the roars become a name, indecipherable at first above the clapping and cup-slamming, but soon chanted over and over: "JON SNOW! JON SNOW! JON SNOW!"
Gilly and I look at each other in disbelief, dropped jaws battling the huge grins on our faces. "Well, that sounds promising," I say, my cheekbones aching from glee.
Jon and Sam finally emerge from the dining hall a few minutes later, many of the brothers behind them still cheering and chanting and clapping Jon on the back. They spot us almost immediately. Brightening, probably at the sight of Gilly, Sam leads the charge down the wooden staircase and crosses the courtyard to us. He checks to confirm that Jon has followed before turning back to us and gesturing grandly to him.
"May I present," Sam says, while Gilly gazes at him like she would a true hero, "the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Jon Snow."
A/N: Thanks for the faves/follows/reviews! ZainR, good question about the Melisandre thing. I figure Katniss's parentage isn't nearly as much of a secret as Jon's (the truth of which hasn't yet "come to light," so to speak). GS, totally agree, Katniss may be as self-sacrificing as Nissa-Nissa but when it comes to surviving she always pulls through. Tbh I'm looking forward to Hardhome myself. It's gonna be a blast ;D
Until next time!