Chapter Nineteen: The Songbird of Castle Black
Now that Jon Snow is the new Lord Commander, my position at Castle Black is a bit more stable.
The Night's Watch brothers have got me singing at dinner, perhaps in honor of the election, but I'm thinking it'll turn into a regular thing. This, I don't really mind too much. When I was considering my victor's talent, post-Games, I ruled out singing purely because I would never let myself be a songbird for the Capitol. These men, on the other hand, are a much better audience. Or at least more tolerable. If I do notice anyone looking spiteful or lecherous, or even feel stage fright making a resurgence, I find someone I trust in the crowd and pretend I'm singing to them. Even if they aren't really there, like Cinna or Prim, Peeta or Rue.
But mostly I have a decent audience. I've already admitted to them that I'm not familiar with any of Westeros's songs, and while some offer to teach me the ones they know, when I sing a couple of my father's favorites, they're more than receptive towards them. Though I've basically given up all hope of lying low by doing this, at least I've got a role carved out.
Haymitch would be losing his mind if he could see me now. I can just hear him shouting, "THIS! This is how you get sponsors!" The thought of his exasperated voice makes me wistful.
But a successful election, cheerful songs, and a good dinner don't keep the nightmares away. Tonight I find myself in the Capitol sewers again, except they're icy cold and more like the inside of the Wall's gate tunnel. The lizard mutt version of Thorne lashes out at Gilly and Gale, rakes his sharp talons across Jon's chest when he tries to protect Peeta, and then he comes skittering and hissing after me. Beady eyes glittering with cold-blooded hatred, Thorne the lizard mutt slams me against the ladder and unhinges his jaw, then lunges for my head.
I wake with a gasp and thankfully not a scream this time. Buttercup stirs as well, before realizing it's just me and lowering his head back down on his paws. Trying to fall back asleep doesn't do me any good. After what feels like twenty minutes of trying, I give up and throw on warm layers, then grab a flashlight and sneak out into the courtyard. It's late enough that anyone still awake must be on top of the Wall, and early enough that no one's already up training, because I make it to the library without anyone bothering me.
Beetee's idea to peruse the Westeros books is a good one, and also not a bad solution to my current sleeping problems. They'll either be so interesting that I forget my nightmares, or so boring that I'll end up dozing off again. I pad over to the shelves and drag my light along the spines until I find a section that looks like mainly Westeros history books. With careful fingers, I pull one off the shelf and bring it to the table.
Should I be recording? I decide not to bother until the end. I can skim each page later and then Beetee will be able to pause the footage as he likes. For now, I sit and read in peace, going back to Westeros's prehistory. I'm at least able to recognize some of the material, thanks to Jon's brief summary in the elevator ride. Like the Children of the Forest, small hunter-gatherers who made arrowheads and daggers out of dragonglass, and apparently are responsible for the creepy faces on certain trees – weirwood trees, which are sacred to the Old Gods of the Forest that they worshiped.
I make a mental note to not let any more parachutes unsettle the leaves on that one tree. I'm skeptical, but the First Children were said to have magic, and after what Melisandre's Lord of Light seems to know about me, I'm not sure I want to call any bluffs.
There's also the First Men, who invaded Westeros and started fighting the Children of the Forest, a war that lasted for centuries. The Children used magic to split Essos from Westeros and keep more of the First Men from coming, but there were already too many of them. Eventually both sides agreed to a truce, referred to as The Pact. Open lands went to the First Men, and the forested areas were claimed by The Children. The Age of Heroes began, the First Men started worshiping the Old Gods, and peace settled. For about two thousand years. Then came the White Walkers, and the generation of darkness called the Long Night.
A lot of this history sounds like it's mixed with legend, but I can't say it's not interesting. I'm so immersed in the Battle for the Dawn and the construction of the Wall that I don't hear the slow footsteps, don't even register the fact that I'm not alone until it's too late.
"Katniss Everdeen!" a voice rasps from the darkness. I look up with a jolt, flicking a beam of light at the intruder with my flashlight. It catches on a pair of pale wide-set eyes and an old face, which only serves to make me jump a second time.
"Maester Aemon," I say, lowering the light in relief as I search for my breath.
"Sorry to sneak up on you, my dear," he says, chains jangling softly as he shuffles toward me. "I didn't expect to find anyone else down here at this hour."
"How did you know it was me?" I can't help but ask.
Aemon smiles at me, feeling for the edge of the table. "You bring the scent of the woods with you," he answers. From behind him comes a pair of footsteps with a heavier tread. Moments later, Sam appears, lit up by the lantern in his hand while he clutches an armful of rolled up maps and parchment to his chest. He looks a lot more surprised to see me. "And because the only other person who would be wasting candles to read in the middle of the night is Samwell Tarly, who has only just now caught up with me."
"She's not using candles, Maester Aemon," Sam is swift to correct, moving around Aemon to get a better look. "She's using… actually, I'm not sure what that is."
"Oh, um…" I awkwardly click the button a couple of times, off and then on again. "Flashlight. Just a kind of light source we have in Panem."
Sam sets down the lantern and a few of the papers on the table, looking curious. "Can I see that?"
Since he's already noticed it, there's no point in being secretive. I hand the flashlight over to him. "Careful, it's bright. Try not to stare directly at it for too long."
"You'd better listen to her, Tarly," says Aemon, tremulously taking a seat. "Those young eyes of yours are still useful to me. I should like for them to remain unharmed."
"What's in this thing? The bloody sun?" Sam mutters in amazement. Wandering off through the aisles, he flicks the beam of light this way and that, letting it dance along the ceiling, the shelves, the floor.
Aemon and I are left with the trembling flame of the lantern as it reaches toward the papers that have unfurled on the table, illuminating a portion of a map with an unsteady orange glow. Winterfell catches most of the light, drawing my focus to it. I quietly activate my camera and lean over, making sure Beetee will get a good glimpse of what I'm looking at. It's Westeros, with the lands beyond the Wall at the very top. To the east is the other continent labelled Essos. I record as closely as I dare, acting as his eyes, my own eyes trailing first over each location in or around Westeros. Bear Island, Winterfell, The Eyrie, Dragonstone…
"So what is it, then, that brings Katniss Everdeen to the library at such an hour? Reading by flashlight?" Aemon asks companionably. "I'm told you visited the top of the Wall around this time last night. I do hope your bed is not uncomfortable."
"No, it's not that," I assure him. "I just get night terrors sometimes. Thought that instead of tossing and turning trying to get back to sleep, I could come down here and do something more useful with my time."
Aemon nods with a little "ah" of comprehension. "A commendable choice," he says. "I've had a few sleepless nights myself as of late. I fear I am not feeling well. 'Stay abed, Maester!' they tell me. 'You need rest,' they say. But the mind is more curious than it is obedient, I've found. Thankfully, so is Tarly's. And so here we are, in the same place at the same time." He smiles in my direction. "What are you reading?"
I check the timeworn front cover. "True History," I say. "I figured that was where I should start. Panem doesn't exactly have information on Westeros, so I don't really know anything about it."
"Nor does Westeros know anything about you," Aemon counters. I think of the Red Woman and silently beg to differ. "Could it be possible that Panem is known here by a different name?"
"Well, it's part of a place that was once called North America," I respond. "But I don't see that name on this map either."
"Another dead end," he agrees. "Doubtless, there are still parts of this world that have yet to be mapped. I suppose you could even fill in those spaces, if you recall what direction you travelled to get here."
"That's where it gets tough," I admit. I've been wondering if I can play this as a sort of amnesia. "One moment I was in Panem, visiting a friend in District 3. Luckily packed and ready to go on an adventure. And then the next, everything's way too bright, and I'm surrounded by ice and snow, somewhere in… here."
My finger hovers in a circle over the lands north of the Wall, until I pinpoint the appropriate distance from Castle Black.
"The Haunted Forest," I say, reading the name of the area aloud in a hollow voice. How very on-the-nose. My thoughts veer to Benjen Stark, but I pull them back and look over at Aemon. "What happened in between is still pretty hazy to me. I didn't know where I was, how I got there, or where I should be going."
Aemon reaches out a quivering hand and touches my wrist. "Well, you're not a ghost," he says decisively, but with good humor. "Or else my hand would've passed right through you."
It's not my own specter I'm spooked by, but I smile regardless. "It's a good thing I ran into Benjen Stark not long after that," I say. "I might've gone farther north and run into more of those White Walkers."
"Is that what's haunting your dreams, my dear?" he asks.
"Only one of them, but…" I falter, splaying my fingers out over the pages of the history book. "Is all of this true? About the Long Night? Children of the Forest, First Men, White Walkers... a winter that lasted for years instead of months?"
Reading it is one thing. Saying it aloud – years – brings a dark, empty feeling to my chest. I could never have made Peeta's bread last that long. And the dandelion I saw that day at school… it would be no more than a dream of spring, probably crushed beneath another wave of snow.
"Most believe it to be no more than a children's story," says Aemon. "Which is why our pleas for the kingdoms to send more men to guard the Wall have largely gone unanswered. But you have seen them yourself. And so have Samwell and Jon."
As if hearing his name, Sam comes back and returns the flashlight to me as one would a knife. I take it and click it off, since a curious mind with an interesting new toy is a bad combination for a battery. "How many of them did you see out there?" Sam asks.
I think back a week, trying to count. "I don't know. About ten?" Twirling the flashlight in my fingers, I look up at him. "Why, how many did you see?"
"Too many to count," Sam says. "Hundreds. Thousands. An entire army and their dead horses, all marching south towards the Wall."
The flashlight falls out of my grip and drops noisily to the hard stone floor. Thousands. Thousands of dead people and their horses coming here, with a seven-hundred-foot Wall in their way. As long as the Wall stands, the dead cannot pass beyond it. But can the Wall withstand it? Apparently they can bring back dead animals as well. I grimace, imagining the mammoth from the other night slamming against the Wall without rest.
"You must be starting to miss Panem right about now," Sam says, with a weak chuckle of sympathy.
I picture the Capitol hovercrafts, which no towering ice wall could stop, soaring over the districts and relentlessly raining firebombs. "Not yet," I say flatly. "Panem had its own horrors." My story alone would be enough to fill the book in front of me.
"A children's story," Aemon repeats. "Filled with the very things that give us all nightmares. But even so, restless minds like ours spent many late nights writing it all down. So that we would remember. So that we would know how to stop them," he pauses for effect, his dry rasp softening to a solemn murmur, "when the real nightmares return."
His words linger with me long after I've said goodnight to them both. The idea he's planted ironically makes it harder to fall asleep. I've brought the pieces with me, like an outline, and my memory – and, I'm sure, countless sleepless hours in my future.
The next morning, at the weirwood tree, I ask Beetee to send pens and paper.
Shireen greets me when I return from my hunt, trailing me like a shadow as I deliver the game and greens to Hobb. She reminds me of Rue in that way, except not quite as inconspicuous.
"What's funny?" she asks when I emerge from the kitchens laughing a little under my breath.
I shake my head, grinning. "It's just that back in District 12, I dropped off game at a place called The Hob. And now I'm bringing it to a man named Hobb," I say, shifting my quiver strap securely on my shoulder before glancing aside to her. "Some things never change, you know? Makes Castle Black feel a little more like home."
"I do like it here," Shireen says wistfully as we walk. "But Gilly and I missed you and Sam in the library this morning. Are they going to be sending you out to hunt every day?"
"Lot of men to feed," I say, trying to keep it vague. But we both know her father's army makes up a large portion of that.
Shireen nods in understanding. "Father's speaking with Jon now," she informs me. "He knows we can't stay here forever. I heard him and Ser Davos saying we may have to ride for Winterfell within a fortnight, or else the snows will trap us here indefinitely. He doesn't think even the new Lord Commander's patience or resources will hold out for that long."
Fortnight. I rack my brains for the meaning. I heard it used to describe a handful of past Hunger Games when they ended in two weeks or less.
Two weeks or less until she leaves, with just her parents and their army for company. No wonder she looks so downcast. The thought bums me out as well.
Luckily, Buttercup chooses that time to bound up to us and rub up against our legs, and she brightens considerably. Picking him up, she cuddles him a little, and then holds him out to me. I humor her by giving him an obligatory chin scratch, which he lazily accepts.
She puts him back on the ground and he pads after us as we walk, or probably after her. There's no other reason for him to be following. I still have my bow and arrows and game bag but I don't have any entrails for him. Yet he sticks by us, even when we pause by some stairs and start talking about songs. I've already taught her a few, but here Shireen teaches me one of hers, a simple yet silly song called "It's Always Summer Under the Sea." When I give it a try, Buttercup doesn't even run away yowling.
I'm debating whether or not his shriveled old cat heart can take saying goodbye to another Prim, when she pauses and looks over at my bow.
"Are you very good at that?" she asks. "With the bow."
I pick it up and examine it in my hands, letting her have a closer look as well. "I'm all right," I say.
She thinks for a second, then eyes me hopefully. "Could you show me?" She nods toward the courtyard, where there are some crude straw figures set up as target practice.
"Is it allowed?" I ask. Despite my initial desire to appear as unremarkable as possible, the thought of using Castle Black's training area has tempted me since I got here, but I'm suddenly feeling tentative about firing weapons near a king's daughter.
Shireen seems to know what I'm thinking. "If they say anything, you can tell them the princess asked you to do it," she points out with a smile.
That's good enough for me. Maybe the Night's Watch brothers can say no to a king, but I'm helpless in the face of royalty. Especially a face like that, with eyes like Prim's and a smile like Rue's.
Bow in hand, sheath of black arrows on my shoulder, I position myself in the center of the courtyard, just past the steps that lead up to the elevator. A good place to start. I'm not trying to impress anybody just yet. I take out an arrow, pull on the bow, and easily pierce the straw dummy's heart. Shireen offers a smattering of applause, and I grin back at her, but I'm not done.
I retrieve the arrow, then head past the elevator platform and climb another set of stairs. I've covered accuracy, but what about distance? I share a look with Shireen, who is holding Buttercup and watching with wide-eyed anticipation. Another arrow flies. It skewers the dummy through the chest with a satisfying thunk.
Shireen can't easily clap with Buttercup in her arms, but I hear her gasp in admiration. Making my way back down to the courtyard, I stop directly across from Shireen's staircase and consider how to tackle speed. I draw a deep breath, taking in the five targets across from me. Then I fire arrow after arrow into each of their faceless heads.
Buttercup must've wriggled out of Shireen's arms, because I hear her clapping enthusiastically, begging to see more. Since the courtyard is still ours, and she's a much more captive and appreciative audience than the Gamemakers, I decide to show her some tricks from my first private sessions. Backing up further, I get the two dummies on the left in the heart, then the two on the right. Finally, I do the shoulder-roll, rise on one knee, and hit the one in the center.
There's a gasp cut short, but no applause this time. Confused and a little breathless, I get to my feet, turning to face Shireen. She's still there on her staircase, but she's not alone. Behind her, waiting at the balcony, is Stannis Baratheon.
My heart, only just beginning to settle after the demonstration, races anew. But I already knew this was inevitable. Stannis says something to Shireen, who gets up and hesitantly walks away, but not before giving me a sheepish wave goodbye. Stannis descends the staircase as well, then gestures for me to approach, and I meet him at the bottom of the steps.
"Katniss Everdeen," he says.
Swallowing hard, I briefly bow my head in greeting. "Your Grace."
"I wonder if I might have a word." It sounds calm and perfectly polite, but it's an order, not a question.
I squint over at the slain straw dummies, then back at him. "Can I go get my arrows first?"
We're in the King's Tower now, with Stannis sitting at his desk and Ser Davos standing to his right. I'm glad it's just Davos and not Melisandre who joined him while I was retrieving my arrows from the targets. I almost forgot my bag on the stairs where I left it with Shireen, but Davos nicely thought to pick it up and bring it along as we walked to the tower together. Now it sits by the door with my bow and quiver, while I stand before the king, devices switched on, awaiting some sort of wrath or judgment.
At last, Stannis breaks the silence. "My daughter likes you," he remarks. "You've made quite an impression on her since the day you arrived."
There's a lull, so I figure I'm supposed to respond. "She's made an impression on me, Your Grace," I tell him. "She has a good heart. Reminds me of my little sister."
"Your sister," Stannis repeats, and for a moment I think he glances at Ser Davos. "What was her name?"
"Prim," I say. It sounds too short and informal for a response to a king, so I amend my answer. "Primrose."
"Did you sing to Primrose too? When she was younger?" Stannis asks. "Lullabies, perhaps."
I nod, mildly suspicious of how innocently conversational these questions sound. "Yes," I say. "She liked the Meadow song best."
"Yes, Shireen mentioned that one," says Stannis. "She loves all of your songs, though she tells me her favorite is the one with the magical river." Then his gaze chills significantly. "Can you guess which of your songs is on my mind right now?"
There it is. "The Hanging Tree, Your Grace?" I suggest, and it's all I can do to ensure that my tone lacks sarcasm.
"The Hanging Tree," Stannis confirms. "Do you know what the men are calling you? The Songbird of Castle Black. It fits well with your sigil, the mockingjay." He says it like it's the most ridiculous word he's ever heard, putting emphasis on the mocking part. "Ser Davos tells me it's a bird from your country. As well as a symbol of rebellion."
"Yes, Your Grace," I say, widening my eyes to make myself look earnest. "So is the song."
He looks less than impressed, but I can't help it. The fact that I've already earned myself a new nickname has kind of thrown me off. "And what exactly are you rebelling against?"
"Nothing, anymore," I answer. "I mean, back home it was against torture, starvation, the burning of our districts, and the systematic murder of our children. But here it's just an execution song."
What am I doing? Of all times to not have a filter, the worst is probably when speaking to a king. I think if Effie were in this room right now, I would be giving her a heart attack. Instead, I have Ser Davos, who is watching us like we're both about to knock a vase over and he can't decide which one to catch.
But if Stannis is taken aback by my words, he barely shows it. "Was it just an execution song when you aimed your arrow at Mance Rayder?" he asks coolly. "It wasn't just my men who saw you. So did the wildlings. There's talk of you in their cells. You're not one of them, but some admire you. Heard you sing to their king. Some have been singing it themselves."
I feel the warning signs of a headache coming on. Singing The Hanging Tree was a spur-of-the-moment decision, but so was pulling out those berries in the arena. Why do my actions keep on having these kinds of consequences?
From somewhere deep inside my memory, old words of Peeta echo anew. She has no idea, he says in my head. The effect she can have.
"I'm honestly not looking for that kind of attention, Your Grace," I tell him. "I wasn't the one who shot the arrow that night. All I did was sing a song."
Stannis studies my face for a moment. Maybe he believes me, but he's not satisfied.
"My brother Robert went to war over a girl like you," he says. "I don't suppose Jon Snow has mentioned anything to you about his aunt Lyanna."
"No, but I'm told that I look just like her," I say.
"You have her coloring," Stannis agrees. "And her attitude, mostly. She was a skinny, willful, wild girl. But she was also a great beauty, or else Robert wouldn't have been so obsessed with her for all those years." He says this more to himself, rolling his eyes. "Rhaegar Targaryen thought she was beautiful, too. After winning the tourney at Harrenhal, he chose her as the queen of love and beauty instead of his wife, laying a crown of blue winter roses in her lap. He would later abduct Lyanna, who was Robert's intended, near Harrenhal, and when her brother Brandon called for Rhaegar to answer to his crimes, Rhaegar's father King Aerys had him and his father Lord Rickard Stark executed. This led to the war known as Robert's Rebellion, which lasted close to a year and brought about the deaths of thousands upon thousands of men, women, and children, including Lyanna herself." He gives me a moment to absorb all this, before fixing me with a stern look. "The Hanging Tree isn't just a song any more than that crown of winter roses was just a wreath of flowers."
Part of me wants to defend Lyanna, who shouldn't have a war blamed on her for being desirable. Another part is stuck on the fact that she, too, was presented with roses. Winter roses. Snow. I'm reminded of his visit before the Victory Tour and I know that Stannis is right.
"A spark can grow into an inferno," I mutter.
"Exactly," says Stannis. "The Lady Melisandre says you aren't a threat. I'd like to believe her, but there are things she sees and things she doesn't see. For instance, she didn't see the way you were shooting out there. Are you preparing for war, Lady Everdeen?"
"No, Your Grace," I say immediately. "I've had my fair share of war already. I'm not trying to start another one."
"Good," he says. "I'm trying to end one."
Suddenly, there's a commotion outside, so Stannis dismisses me and excuses himself to follow the noise. I'm tempted to follow him, but then I think better of it and turn to Ser Davos. "Just what is the Red Woman telling him about me?" I ask.
"Not much," he replies swiftly. "But after you arrived, she spent an absurd amount of time consulting with her Lord of Light. And by that, I mean staring at her visions in the flames." At this, he makes a face while I scoff. "She saw you from atop the Wall and looked pleased to see you. When I asked how she knew you, she only said that the Lord's light touches all worlds, and all worlds that touch him." He raises his eyebrows at me. "Does that mean anything to you, milady? Because it certainly doesn't to me."
"It just sounds like more of her usual cryptic messages to make herself sound ominous," I say, trying to appear unimpressed. But now I am trying to make sense of it, trying to think like Beetee. Is she saying that light is universal? Or, in this case, multiversal? Light, lightyears, speed of light, there's probably some sort of scientific connection here. Maybe Beetee had to figure it out in order to accomplish multidimensional travel. And when he did, when I did, we opened the door for Melisandre's Lord of Light to shine through. If he wasn't there already.
"Well, the last time the Red Woman took an interest in someone your age, it wasn't good," Davos says, breaking me out of the thoughts that will almost guarantee a headache. "I don't suppose you have any king's blood in you."
"Not that I'm aware of," I answer. "We don't really do the kings and queens thing in Panem. The people elect a president, so blood doesn't matter. And even if it did, my father was a coal miner, and my mother came from the merchant sector. A bit higher up in class, but still not royalty." While going to pick up my things, I give Davos a look. "She apparently already knows this."
He seems relieved to hear it, although still just as confused as I am. "Then I'm afraid I'm at a loss," he says. "If you're not a threat, and you're not of royal blood, the only thing I can think of is that she believes you have a part to play in the wars to come."
"I'll bet King Stannis loves that," I say dryly, sliding my quiver onto my shoulder.
"He doesn't terribly mislike you," Davos assures me. "You're good to Shireen and he sees that. Mainly he just means to warn you. Though to tell you the truth... perhaps I shouldn't be saying this, but I think he's more disappointed that you didn't inspire a man to go to war."
"How do you mean?" I ask, turning more fully to face him while I adjust my game bag on my arm.
"Well, as you might be aware, His Grace recently offered a lordship to Jon Snow," he says. "Offered to make him a Stark, in exchange for pledging his service and giving him the North. I believe he expected that you would be enough of an incentive for Jon to say yes."
"Me?" I say, dumbfounded. "Why me?"
Davos shrugs. "He's seen the way he looks at you," he answers, as if it's obvious. "And a Night's Watch brother cannot marry. The Lord of Winterfell can."
Unbelievable. I haven't been in this world two weeks and I'm already being married off. "I'm not exactly the marrying type, Ser Davos," I tell him. "Besides, Jon and I just met! And we both lost someone recently. The girl he loved died days ago, so I really don't think he's looking at me or any girl in any special way right now. If he is, it's because of the Benjen thing. Or the stunt with Mance."
"Well, that may be," Davos concedes, though he doesn't look entirely convinced. "But sometimes the promise or mere idea of a future is enough hope to spur a man on. To not only avenge his family but to start a new one."
There's something hidden in his tone that makes me linger over his words. A subtle mournfulness, a melancholy yearning that reminds me of my own buried sadness. Snow and Coin are dead, so I guess I've avenged the people I love, but is that enough? Will it ever be enough to make me feel safe? To give me the security that, if I actually wanted to have children one day, I could do so without fearing for their very lives? Or will I be dreaming five, ten, twenty years into the future about their names being picked in the reaping, even here in a world where the Hunger Games never took place?
The thought catches me by surprise. I wonder if I'll be staying in this world for that long…
"Not that it matters," says Ser Davos, drawing me back to the present by clearing his throat. "I imagine his Night's Watch brothers are his family now."
I'm about to agree with him when we both hear a shout from the courtyard. A pleading cry for mercy, quivering with panic. "What is going on out there?" I ask, striding out the door in the same direction that Stannis went. From the sound of quick footsteps following after me, Davos is just as anxious to find out.
We emerge from the tower together, finding a crowd gathered outside at the platform in front of the elevator. Above them, on the stairs, they have someone bent over a chopping block.
I recognize the bald head of Janos Slynt only seconds before Jon Snow brings the sword down and removes it from his neck.
A/N: Thanks for all faves/follows/reviews!