Chapter Twenty: Scars

A couple of days pass uneventfully. Hunting, gathering, chores with Gilly. Helping Sam in the library with scrolls while Shireen and Gilly continue their lessons. Some singing now and then. I'm no longer dreading a run-in with Stannis, so that's a load off my shoulders. Mostly we stay out of each other's way, save for when we both share a presence with Shireen, which hasn't happened a lot. More often, it's Ser Davos who acknowledges me with a nod or a few polite words as he checks up on her or escorts her to her parents.

He fondly calls her Princess, as she calls him Onion Knight. If I didn't know better, I'd mistake them for father and daughter. Except her dark hair and blue eyes are so unmistakably Stannis.

I'm getting used to the layout of Castle Black, so after I finish feeding the ravens one morning, I slink through a passage, up some stairs, and across a walkway while avoiding the courtyard entirely. A good thing, too, because it's currently packed with armed men swinging swords at each other. The roof also shields me from a steady snow that's been flurrying since I woke up. Shivering, I tighten my coat around me and bury half my face in my scarf, longing for the warm summer temperatures I left behind in Panem.

I find Shireen in her usual spot – on the stairs leading up to the dining hall, watching the men train. I guess there's not much else for a kid to do here, but she seems perfectly content where she is. Enraptured, even. I greet her with a smile and she returns it, patting the steps in an invitation to join her.

"What are you watching?" I ask, obligingly taking a seat at the top of the stairs. Then, after a glance through the gap in the railing, I shift my knowing eyes to her. "Or should I say, who are you watching?"

Shireen blushes into her lap, hiding a smile. "Jon Snow," she admits quietly. The way she says his name, she somehow manages to make it sound beautiful, like it could belong to no one other than the most dashing prince who ever lived. "He's very handsome, isn't he? And a good fighter."

"He is," I say, appreciating the plausible deniability. I could be just agreeing to the "good fighter" part. There's no denying that he's skilled in combat. I knew from Sam's speech that Jon knows how to fight, but hearsay is different from witnessing it for yourself.

He strides up to one of the brothers he's training, taking a sword from him and turning to face two of the men as he twirls the blade in his hands, getting a good grip on it. Circling his opponent, he swings a hit that the other man barely blocks, then immediately parries his counterattack, before knocking the sword away with a flick of his arm. He fights like a Career, like he's been doing this all his life.

Finnick's voice creeps back into my ear. "Such a young man when he rose to power. Such a clever one to keep it."

I want to shoo the words away like an annoying cloud of gnats. The fact that I still make the association between the two irritates me to no end. I thought I'd done away with it after the talk on the Wall and the election, but the beheading of Janos Slynt threw me off. There were so many reasons why it shouldn't have, and so many more after I asked Sam about it and learned what crimes brought Slynt to the Night's Watch. Still, the image of Jon's face twisting into a grimace of fury as he slammed his sword down and the blade sliced through Slynt's neck is not one that I'll soon forget. Compared to that, the sight of the stump spurting out blood wasn't nearly as shocking.

It forced me to look at him differently. And ever since, I've been wondering, what kind of leader will Jon Snow turn out to be?

Nothing like President Snow, I've been telling myself, and continue to tell myself as I watch him. Snow never did the executing himself, and the murders he pulled off were sneaky and indirect, by way of poison. With my weapon of choice being a bow, my own kills have so often been from a distance.

It's different with a sword, I realize, following Jon's movements as he ducks and thrusts and dodges. He has to get in close, look them in the eyes, hear their last gasps before he strikes the killing blow. There's no distancing himself from it. With him, it's always personal.

Stopping for a break, Jon takes a moment to massage his hands and readjust his gloves, before casting an idle glance in our direction. His eyes find mine, and he looks surprised to find me staring. Which I guess is fair, because the last time he saw me looking at him for more than three seconds was probably at Slynt's beheading. I've sort of avoided lingering eye contact since then, while I tried to figure out how I felt about it.

Now, even though I'm mildly embarrassed to be caught, I don't avert my eyes this time. In fact, I make myself more comfortable on the stairs and give him a little eyebrow raise and slight gesture like, oh, don't mind us, carry on. Anyway, it's not like Shireen and I are the only ones spectating. Stannis and Selyse are at the foot of another staircase nearby, though I can feel the latter's watchful gaze shifting to me. Or to her daughter, which infuriates me and makes me want to block her from view because it doesn't feel warm or motherly.

When Jon looks away, I allow myself to do the same, switching my daring staredown to Selyse. She's saying something to Stannis, but her eyes carry the frown for her, and for a few seconds we're locked in a battle of mutual disapproval. I feel briefly triumphant when she's the first to break it, despite part of it having to do with the fact that Melisandre is coming down the steps to join them.

"Katniss?" Shireen asks, pulling my attention back to her. Round, curious eyes train on me. "If Jon wasn't part of the Night's Watch, would you marry him?"

The question catches me off-guard. My first instinct is to bristle, to wonder if Stannis has actually recruited his daughter to bring this up with me. But then I collect myself with a little smile.

"What, and steal him away from you?" I ask, trying to look and sound as scandalized as possible. This makes her giggle. "Nah, go on, you marry him. Make him a prince and whisk him away from this place. Your dad likes him, after all."

Shireen smiles briefly. "I don't think he wants to be a prince. I think he'd rather be with you. You're beautiful. And I..." She trails off, smile fading the way it does when she thinks of her greyscale. "Well, Mother says the scars will make it difficult to find a good match for me."

I want to glare at Selyse again, but she's gone. Instead, I lean in towards Shireen and lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Can I let you in on a secret?" I ask. She gives an eager nod, leaning forward as well. "I have scars, too."

"Where?" Shireen whispers back. "Can I see them?"

"If you think you can handle it," I say.

Shireen gives another nod. "I can handle it," she says decisively, so I roll up my sleeves and show her my arms.

The doctors may have worked their magic in the Capitol hospital, but that can only go so far, and my struggles after the execution did their damage. The doctors did warn that the scarring would peak after the six-month mark. Now, after nine months or so, my arms are a patchwork of pink, different shades in different places, swirling on my skin like the paints Peeta and the morphlings used to decorate me before the Quell. Not so irritated but still tender to the touch, though I don't flinch when Shireen gasps and takes my arm in both hands to examine it.

"What happened?" she asks, lifting her gaze to me. Wide-eyed and full of fascination.

"An explosion," I say. "I got caught up in a big fire. Burned me pretty bad. Look, it doesn't stop at my arms." With my free hand, I pull down my scarf, move my hair, and reveal the shiny pink parts of my neck.

Shireen stares, transfixed. "Does it hurt?"

"A little," I tell her. "Not so much anymore. It's been almost a year, and I have some ointment to put on it that helps."

"You must have incredibly skilled maesters where you're from, if they were able to save you after a burn like that," she says.

"We call them doctors and nurses in Panem," I say. "My mother's one of them. She had to get skilled at treating burns, since most people from my district used to work in the coal mines and there tended to be a lot of accidents. Luckily the mines are closed now, so District 12 has switched to making medicine instead."

Shireen is hanging onto my every word. "Do you think they could make a cure for greyscale?" she asks.

I shrug. "I don't know. We don't really have it in Panem," I admit. "You're cured anyway, aren't you?"

She lowers her eyes. "Yes, but..." she says, grazing at the spot on her cheek.

"They could do what they did with me, and cover up the area with new skin," I go on. Shireen looks amazed at the idea. "But only if you wanted to. The thing is, in Panem, there are people who would get tattoos and decorate their face with all sorts of colors and designs and textures... If they saw a princess with greyscale on her face, they'd probably think it was beautiful. They'd want to look just like you."

"They would?" Shireen asks, doubtful but daring to wonder.

I nod, reminded of Octavia's green skin, of Venia's gold tattoos above her eyebrows, of Tigris's stripes and whiskers. "Yes, it's unique. Something they've never seen before. People in the Capitol, they loved that kind of stuff. New styles and fashion trends. They were always changing themselves to look more interesting," I tell her, and touch the side of my head. "My friend Cressida had half of her head shaved here, with tattoos of these long green vines that ran all the way down her neck and shoulder."

Shireen smiles anew. "Those sound pretty," she allows, but her expression still wavers. Vines are not the same as scales and stone.

Undeterred, I try again. "Scars are just proof that you've survived something," I say. "In your case, something that most people don't."

Then I feel bad, because that's easy for me to say since I can hide mine. Still, that means when people do see them, it's more of a surprise. I figure most people are used to Shireen's greyscale by now. When Jon looks at her, probably the first thing he notices is her smile. I decide not to mention this, for fear that I'm laying it on too thick. If I were talking to a younger version of myself, Katniss would be glaring daggers at me with accusations of condescension.

Lucky for me, Shireen is not Younger Katniss, and instead distracts herself with my arm again. "What about this one?" she asks, her finger hovering over the jagged scar from the Quell where my tracker used to be. "It looks different from the burns. Older. Lumpy. What did you survive here?"

"Oh, that?" I say, keeping a light, even tone. "That's where someone cut into my arm with a knife."

Shireen still looks distressed. "Why would anyone want to hurt you?"

"She was just trying to dig something out," I assure her. "Wasn't fun, though. Really disgusting, honestly. But it did help save my life."

Shireen looks as if she wants to ask more questions, which would likely involve me having to explain about the tracker, but then we both sense another pair of eyes on us. A simultaneous sideways glance reveals Stannis staring in our direction. Or, more specifically, at the burnt and mutilated arm in his daughter's hands, held out for display. I meet his eyes briefly, before pulling down my coat sleeves one at a time.

Melisandre, on the other hand, sneaks no more than a mere glimpse and eyebrow raise my way, and then her focus drifts back to the training in the courtyard. Apparently, she can't be bothered to tear her own gaze from Jon for very long. Her interest in him disturbs me on some sort of instinctive level, like watching my old lynx home in on a particularly juicy-looking morsel, so I look over at Jon as well, quietly feeling sorry for the Red Woman's prey.

So agile, yet so unsuspecting…

When I hear a little laugh, I turn to Shireen, who is grinning at me. "Are you sure you wouldn't marry Jon?" she prods, in a teasing singsong voice. "You never actually said so."

I can't help but share her laugh, even though the singsong reminds me of Rue. "I like Jon. He's a good guy," I say. "It's just that I'm still trying to get over the last man I was supposed to marry."

"You were going to marry someone?" Shireen asks, instantly enchanted by the promise of another love story. Then the intrigue in her eyes fades to understanding. "Why not anymore? Did he…?" She trails off, letting the silence speak the word for her.

"Yes," I say softly. "Near the end of the war. Panem's war. A few months ago."

Shireen looks down at her lap, pensive and sorrowful for the loss of some otherworldly boy she's never met. Then she glances to me with a small smile. "Was he handsome?" she asks. "More handsome than even Jon Snow?"

At first I don't know how to answer that. A grin crosses my lips regardless, and that's when my fingers reach for the chain around my neck. "You tell me," I answer, taking off my medallion and opening the locket before handing it over to her.

She accepts it with exquisite care, cradling the locket in her palm. I can't tell if she's more dazzled by the boy or the prospect of photographs but it's clear she likes what she sees.

"His name was Peeta," I tell her. "Peeta Mellark. He was the baker's son. I was starving once, and he gave me bread. He burnt it on purpose so his mother would make him throw it to the pigs, but instead he threw it to me. I'll never forget that. We didn't talk to each other until years later, but I always remembered the boy with the bread."

"Your Baker Knight," Shireen says dreamily. When I give an inquisitive hum, she clarifies, "Ser Davos is the Onion Knight because he snuck onions and other things into the castle when we were starving. He saved us, just like Peeta saved you. He's your Bread Knight. Your Baker Knight."

I laugh, cheered significantly by the thought of Peeta in shining armor. I've seen Ser Davos's banner, so I try to imagine a loaf of bread in place of the onion, which makes me grin some more.

"What, too silly?" she asks.

"No, it's just…" I purse my lips, trying to control my smile. "He would have really liked you."

She beams, cupping the locket in her hands. "What was he like?" she whispers, eager to know more.

So I tell her. I tell her all the things I can think of about the boy with the bread, all the things I miss about him. I tell her he was a painter, and no, he didn't paint the tiny portraits in the locket, but he used to paint just as delicately onto his own skin. He could paint his arm so that it blended in with the trees. He could frost the most beautiful cakes. He could make the most delicious cheesy buns, which were my very favorite. His favorite color was sunset orange. Shireen asks a hundred questions – was he brave, was he strong, was he good with a sword? - and by the time I've finished listing off all things Peeta, I think Jon Snow may have some competition.

Of course, then Thorne notices me and wonders loudly if I don't have anything better to do, so Shireen and I exchange an apologetic look as I get up to see if I can help Hobb, Sam, or Gilly with something.

Shireen takes one last look at the locket before holding it out to me. "You must have really loved him," she says.

I hesitate, just for a moment, and then my fingers clasp around it. "Yeah," I say quietly. "I did. And he loved me."

I just wish I'd known it sooner. And that it hadn't taken losing him to figure it out.

That's what frustrates me about love. It's not some tangible plant growing in the forest. I can't recognize it until long after it's gotten into my system. And even then, I have to be told what's killing me.

Before I leave, I look back at Shireen one more time. She's still on the staircase, ready to resume watching the men train, but she smiles at me in farewell. I see Peeta there too, in the spot where I used to be, sitting next to her companionably while sending me an identical farewell smile. Suddenly, the girl beside him transforms into Prim, a little duck squatting on the stairs with the boy with the bread.

Seeing the two of them together makes my heart give a painful lurch. I manage to return the smile, but as soon as she turns her head, I draw in a weighted breath and hurry away.

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