Chapter Twenty-One: The Letters
Gilly and I assist Hobb in the kitchens for an hour or two. She plucks while I skin and he chops in the background. Unlike Thorne, Hobb doesn't have a scowl or a comment for us when he catches us chatting. He reminds me a little of Mr. Mellark, mostly because he's a man of few words and many grunts, but also because he's mentioned my accuracy and how my arrow always hits the eye, never the body. He said it briskly with his back turned to me, but I still wonder if he was trying to disguise a compliment. Whatever the case may be, he mostly ignores us while we talk about hunting and our sisters and how we kept them fed, only interrupting to take what we're done with or hand things off to us.
Later, we track down Sam in the maester's quarters below the ravenry. He's standing at a desk and busily assembling a bunch of papers in a leather sleeve. He looks relieved to see us.
"Katniss, would you do me a favor and take these to Jon?" he asks, passing me the leather sleeve.
I accept it carefully, peeking in at the contents. "Sure, what are they?" I ask, just in case Jon wants to know and all I have for him is a shrug and a noncommittal noise.
"Letters, to the lords and ladies of the noble houses in the North. Asking them to send men and supplies to the Night's Watch," says Sam. "They're already written, I just need them signed and brought back to me to be sent out." He gives Gilly a look I can't quite read. "I'd give them to Jon myself, but Maester Aemon is still unwell and in need of our care, so Gilly and I ought to stay close by." He brightens too quickly and adds, "That's why it's such a good thing that you're here, really. Or, that you came when you did. I'd-" Cutting himself off, he glances at Gilly again with a half-smile that says more. "I'd hate to leave Maester Aemon alone for too long."
"Don't worry, I'll take care of it," I say, because I can read between the lines. He could easily let us girls be the ones to keep an elderly man company and watch him rest. What he actually means is that he's happy to have someone to send off to Jon so that he can spend more time with Gilly. From the shy, knowing grin on her face, she knows exactly what he's up to as well. I say pointedly, "You just worry about taking care of Maester Aemon."
They're so pleased with themselves that they miss the emphasis there, but I like them together so I decide not to give them a hard time about it. Instead, I secure the leather sleeve in the crook of my arm and exit into the courtyard, following Sam's directions to the Lord Commander's quarters.
I'm at the staircase before I realize that my heart is, inexplicably, racing. I climb the steps slowly and pause at the top as I fumble for a reason. Was I moving faster than usual? I don't think so. And I've been eating well, but enough to have staying power, not enough to be out of shape. Even trudging through snow, I don't usually get winded that quickly, so...
Snow. I stare at the closed door in front of me, and remember the study back home, the last time my palms started sweating out of nowhere like this. Breathing in deeply to calm myself, I inhale only the scent of wood and smoke and winter air. No perfumed roses.
There is a Snow behind that door, I remind myself firmly, but you do not fear him.
That helps. It's a sensible thought. I'm even relieved to find that it's true. But it doesn't explain the rapid heartbeat and clammy hands, which frustrates me. I find that my instincts are usually pretty reliable, so what am I responding to?
I force my mind to think clearly. The closed door. The study. Obviously it's because I haven't been alone with Jon since he became the Lord Commander. Even before that, when he burst into my room that night, it was my space he was invading. Now I'm about to enter his quarters while he's in full commander mode, whatever that's like, and hover over him while he does paperwork. Naturally, that's bound to be a little intimidating.
The reason is so simple and so stupid that I roll my eyes at myself in aggravation. What else could it be? I can't believe I let myself get worked up over that.
I take another step toward the door, and falter. Then again, it has some validity to it. What do I do? Should I knock?
After a few seconds of breathing and deliberation, I settle on a brisk prelude knock, give it half a moment to settle, then go right in. Seriously, what is it that's got me so riled up? It's just Jon.
Just Jon, sitting at his desk, hunched over books and papers with a quill pen in hand. His eyes don't look snake-like at all, just soft and dark and tired, but my heart still skips a beat when they flick up to meet mine. Which is ridiculous, because he's the one who's thrown by my presence, not the other way around.
His eyebrows jump upward in silent question, causing another brief twinge of unexplainable panic.
"Lord Commander," I say in a voice that sounds misleadingly at ease. My attempt to regain my composure is aided by the fact that the lighting in this room is not great, especially near the door, so there's no way he can see my cheeks burning from here.
"Something I can help you with?" he asks, then furrows his brow and frowns a little like he isn't sure how that came across.
Strangely, this comes as a huge relief to me. I'm sure he knows what he's doing, but he's also just as awkward as I am. He never asked to be Lord Commander, just like I never asked to be the Mockingjay. We just accepted our roles as they were given to us and ran with them, made them ours, even if at first they seemed as ill-fitting as those hand-me-down shoes District 13 made me clunk around in. He's still the boy with the curls who crashed into my room at the sound of my screams, sword belt askew as he searched around for an imaginary threat. Who later apologized for such an ungentlemanly intrusion. He's still that boy – or that man, I think he's a couple of years older than me – they've just given him a desk job.
Relaxing my shoulders, I shift the leather sleeve in my arms so that it's more noticeable. "Sam sent me. He's busy looking after Maester Aemon," I say, and try to disarm him with a sympathetic mouth twitch as I wave the folder at him. "More paperwork for you to sign."
Jon mutters something quietly and gestures for me to bring them over. Obediently, I approach his desk, and when he asks what they are, I tell him what Sam told me. Letters to the Northern houses requesting aid that need his signature. He sighs softly, then dips his quill in the inkwell and gets to work.
It works out well. We get into a rhythm of me passing and him signing. To fill the silence, I read off the names as I go, and he scratches in his own. But I must sound monotonous or something because after maybe a couple of minutes of this, a sympathetic half-grin crosses his lips.
"Sorry," he says with a slight chuckle. "I'm sure this must be boring for you."
I give a half shrug. "No, it's probably a good thing Sam sent me to do it. At least I'm learning all the big important family names."
"Some of them I've never heard of either," he admits, and casts a brief side-glance at me before looking forward again and shaking his head. "It's just," he says, and scoffs out another short chuckle, "I know what he's trying to do."
"Sam?" I say, and laugh a little too in understanding. "Yeah, he wasn't really subtle about it."
Jon looks at me again, more tentatively. "You're not offended, my lady?" he asks.
Offended? I'm more surprised by the "my lady" part than I am by Sam's little arrangement. "Why should I be?" I ask, shrugging again. "I don't mind. I think it's kind of cute, actually."
"You're taking it rather well," Jon notes, and there's the tiniest hint of a bemused frown.
"I mean, it's not like I'm being given the short end of the stick here," I say. If Sam had made me do something for Thorne, that would be different, but I consider Jon to be good company. Surely he knows that? Unless I've been pricklier about the Snow thing and the execution than I thought, which wouldn't exactly shock me. "Should have seen it coming, anyway. I kind of sensed something there from the day we met."
Jon blinks, as if caught off guard. He parts his lips in surprise, blushing on Sam's behalf. Come to think of it, I guess Sam's feelings could get him in trouble if they're obvious even to me, what with their vows and all. Do the vows cover more than just marriage and children? If they do, Sam doesn't seem to care, which is unexpectedly rebellious of him. I grin to myself, impressed.
Finally, Jon clears his throat and speaks. "I should think it was still a sore spot with you. Especially after what we discussed on the Wall," he says. "Forgive me for eavesdropping, my lady. I overheard some of the things you said to Princess Shireen earlier today."
The Wall? Shireen? I rack my brains, trying to see how either ties in, but find nothing. "Wait, what are you talking about?"
He hesitates, squinting at me. "What are you talking about?"
"Sam, trying to spend some alone time with Gilly?" I remind him, my grin returning with a tinge of confusion.
It takes a moment to settle, as Jon mulls this over like he's replaying the entire conversation in his mind. Then his shoulders relax and he laughs, turning back to his desk with another shake of his head. "Yes, I suppose his motivations are rather clear," he says, still chuckling.
I'm laughing too. "What did you think I meant?" I ask.
"It's not important," he answers, waving it away. Or maybe he's gesturing for another letter to sign. I slip him one and we get back into our rhythm.
At first, my brain wants to linger on our talk on the Wall and my conversation with Shireen and whatever they have in common, but I soon get distracted watching Jon scribble each signature. Inside the Lord Commander's quarters, away from the training yard, his gloves are off and the way he holds a quill is different than the way he grips a sword. I find myself fixated on his fingers, how they grasp the quill just as delicately as Peeta would a pen or paintbrush, making the same quick, precise strokes. Except the quill is much skinnier, and he twists it a bit whenever he takes a moment to read or frown down at one of the names, or he'll absently stroke it with his thumb.
He reaches again to dip the quill in the inkwell. I follow this movement with my eyes because the clinking sound it makes when he taps off the ink is oddly satisfying, and that's when I see it. The burn mark on his palm. It looks old, but distinct, the kind of scar I might've had there after my first Games if not for the ointment Haymitch sent me in the arena.
"What happened to your hand?" I ask, killing the silence because I cannot otherwise kill my curiosity.
There's a short pause as he glances at it reflectively, then he goes right back to scratching in his signature. "Grabbed a lantern and threw it at a wight that had gotten in," he says. "It was going to attack Commander Mormont."
I look at the nearby lantern hanging in the window and cringe at the thin bars, imagining trying to clutch it when the candle is fully ablaze. But another thought stalls me. "One got into the castle? How did it get past the Wall?"
"It was one of the rangers who was out there with Uncle Benjen," he answers. "We found his body beyond the Wall, and brought him through to be examined. It wasn't until after nightfall that he… came back." He accepts another letter from me. "We hadn't realized he'd been touched by a White Walker. This was before we knew what was going on. Now we burn all the dead."
I pause. So much for 'the dead cannot pass.' "How many people do we have guarding the Wall?"
"Fifty," he says grimly.
"Okay, yeah, we need more," I say. He scoffs appreciatively and signs another letter. My thoughts drift back to the origin of his burn. "I'm sure Commander Mormont must've been grateful, though. For what you did that night."
"He was," Jon agrees. "That's how I got Longclaw." He gestures toward the front of the room.
I spot his sword lying on the table, on top of his training armor and sword belt. It's sheathed, as it has been most of the times I've noticed it, but the pommel at the end of the hilt stands out as always. It's hard to see from here, but I know that the pommel has been carved into a ferocious wolf, white as Ghost.
"I get it," I say. "Longclaw. Because of the direwolf."
"It used to be a bear," says Jon. "For House Mormont. He had it changed."
I hand him another letter. "You Westeros families and your sigils."
He grins a little. "Sam tells me you came up with one. The songbird from your pin."
"Yeah, and I'm already regretting it," I say. "I should've just gone with a goat, or maybe a plant—"
"Or a cat," Jon suggests innocently.
"Absolutely not," I say, making him laugh. "Or a willow tree, or an arrow in a loaf of burnt bread or something."
"Ah, yes, for your Baker Knight," he replies, still laughing. Though it dies down after a second as he glances at me. The light from the window must illuminate the fierce blush that's suddenly singed my cheeks. I press my lips together, trying to control my embarrassment. So that's what he overheard.
My reaction is silly, I guess, because I know Jon already knows about Peeta. But I told him how I lost him, not how I loved him. Not the fine details I brought with me to Westeros that aren't locked inside a medallion, that turn him into a person instead of a ghost. He did apologize for eavesdropping, so I recover with a smile that probably looks more pathetic than reassuring.
He goes back to signing, but he must still feel bad about it, because a minute or so later he asks, "Did Stannis already talk to you?" And the mental jump from Shireen to Stannis is painfully obvious.
Still, I go along with it. "Yeah, a couple of days ago," I tell him. "He said the wildlings really like The Hanging Tree, and he wanted to make sure I wasn't trying to start any wars. I thought it went pretty well."
Jon's mouth twitches with faint amusement. "I figured, since I noticed you were standing with Ser Davos when I executed Lord Janos," he says, and looks at me. "My apologies that you had to see that, by the way."
"Don't worry about it. It was just surprising out of context. Really, I've seen worse," I assure him, handing over another letter. "Though with President Snow, he was more indirect with his executions. You know, guns, firebombs, hangings, mutts, poison. He always had something or someone else to do it for him."
He frowns thoughtfully as he fills in his name. "My father had a saying," he responds. "'Whoever passes the sentence should swing the sword.' He told us that if you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his last words." He sets the letter aside and waits for another. "If you can't bring yourself to do that, perhaps he doesn't deserve to die."
I pause in the middle of pulling another letter from the stack to stare at him in disbelief. This man could not be more different from President Snow if he tried. Even his lips are the opposite of Snow's, not puffy at all, so slender and subtle that they're overshadowed by his thin wisp of a mustache. Way more appealing than what President Snow was trying to do when he altered his. But I'm focusing on them too much, which is weird, and I don't want to think of Snow's bloody lips either. So when Jon puzzles at the delay and looks over at me, I blink the thoughts away and give him the letter.
"Sounds like the Night's Watch elected the right man, then," I say.
He studies my face for a moment, possibly deciding whether or not I'm making another dry remark, then I catch a small flicker of a humble half-smile before he looks back to his desk and scribbles in another signature.
The pile starts to thin out. I read off more names and pass them over. Ashford. Caulfield. Smallwood. Many tree-related names, one thing that stays consistent between worlds. Mayzen. I hope I'm pronouncing that one correctly. I grin a little, involuntarily, at Wibberley, and it shows in my voice.
"Something funny about that name, Everdeen?" Jon asks pointedly, though not without amusement.
"Just fun to say," I reply.
Jon raises an eyebrow, but I think I see a grin as he signs the letter. "Well, besides Snow and Everdeen, what sort of names do they have in Panem?"
"Some that would sound silly to people in Westeros, I'm sure," I say. "Mellark, Abernathy, Cresta, Odair, Latier. I also knew a Heavensbee, a Flickerman, and a Trinket. The last one's just as flashy and adorable as she sounds."
Jon smiles some more and appears to be mouthing one of the names to himself. Still grinning, I glance down at the final letter tucked in the leather sleeve, searching for the name of the recipient. When I find it, I immediately trade my grin for a furrowed brow.
Bolton. I do know this name. Why do I know it? It must be someone Jon mentioned during our talk on the Wall. I get a heavy feeling in my chest just reading it, so it can't be anyone good. All I can do is put it down in front of Jon while I comb through my memory.
Jon's just about to scratch in his signature when he notices the name himself. His smile vanishes from his lips, which tighten into a thin line, confirming my suspicions.
"Not him," he says hollowly.
"Yeah, I'm guessing that's why Sam had it at the bottom of the pile," I mutter, still trying to think. Bolton, Bolton... "Roose Bolton. Is he the one who-"
"He murdered my brother," Jon finishes for me, still staring at the letter like it's a viper poised to strike.
Right. That Roose Bolton. The one who betrayed Robb and stabbed him through the heart. By signing the letter, Jon will essentially be begging this man for help.
"Maybe we lost this one," I say. "Maybe a random gust of wind stole it out of my hand. Maybe it blew into the fire and burned up."
"Maybe Buttercup thought it was a plaything and tore it to pieces," Jon mutters.
"Sure, just call me Buttercup," I say. As he manages a wry, feeble smirk, I add, "How helpful can Lord Bolton really be to us, anyway?"
Jon sighs. "He's the Warden of the North," he gets out, as if each word tastes like poison. "So, very. Sam wouldn't include him if he wasn't."
I let out a slow breath. He's right. Warden of the North, as a title, implies command and a lot of influence over the North and its houses. If the Night's Watch is asking the North for men and supplies, this is the man we'll have to turn to.
Having killed the one responsible for Prim's death myself, I feel like a hypocrite for what I am about to say. But I also had to agree to something abhorrent in order to do that, so I decide to say it anyway.
"Look, maybe it's not my place, since my knowledge on the conflict between the houses is still pretty limited," I tell him, and he glances at me from his peripheral vision. "But in Panem, some of the districts hated each other because of what we had to do in the Games. Particularly Districts 1 and 2, wealthy loyalist warrior types, their tributes were usually volunteers. Their kids had been killing ours for years. Sometimes we killed theirs. We still needed help from all of them in order to defeat the Capitol." When he turns his head more fully to face me, I look him right in the eye. "Just had to remember who the real enemy was."
Jon stares at me for a long moment, before turning back to the letter, and there's a sullen silence as my words settle. The real enemy, which in Westeros would be the army of the dead that is bearing down on us as we speak. With only a Wall to separate us and them, we're going to need more than fifty men to guard it. Even if a portion of those men come from Roose Bolton.
In one swift movement, he scrawls his signature on the line and flings the quill aside, as if expecting it to combust in his hand and give him a fresh new burn. I snatch the letter from his desk so that he doesn't have to look at it anymore, then fetch the rest of the letters and slip them back into the leather sleeve while he sulks in his chair, biting at his knuckle.
If I were in his place, I think I'd need a moment, and possibly some dishes to throw. I don't have any dishes for him, but I do need to get these letters back to Sam, so I'm about to leave the room but I've barely taken more than a step and a half before the door swings open and the Red Woman briskly lets herself in.
I freeze in mid-step, shifting the sleeve of papers in my arm, and look at her warily. Maybe I shouldn't be so quick to leave Jon unguarded.
She merely stares back with shameless intrigue, as if pleased to see me, or even amused to find us together. "Lord Commander," she says, nodding to him respectfully, and then to me. "Girl on Fire."
I feel my cheeks flush in protest at the title, especially used right in front of Jon. "Please don't call me that," I groan.
"No?" Melisandre asks, nonplussed. "You seemed to resist being called the Mockingjay."
"You're right," I say under my breath. "If only I had a real first name."
I hear Jon muffle a scoff behind me, but Melisandre only smiles. "Katniss," she says, and turns her gaze back toward Jon. "I'd like to speak to the Lord Commander alone."
A persistent sensation in my gut tells me leaving Jon alone with this woman is, in fact, a terrible idea. Unfortunately, I have nothing to back this up except that gnawing feeling. I turn to look at Jon, expecting him to share my skepticism, but he only gives a slight nod to dismiss me.
Well, all right. I'm sure he can handle himself, and it could be that I am overreacting. Just as I did before I came in. Something about her request for privacy still nettles me – the words hungry lynx reappear in my brain, flashing blood red – but the thought is weirdly protective, so I force myself to ignore it.
"Sure," I say, walking towards the door. "I was just leaving, anyway."
Yes, it's like locking Jon in a cage with a prowling lynx. But he is a wolf, so at the very least, that should be interesting. She awards me a brief smile as I pass, then turns back to face Jon. At the door, I do the same, and sneak him a look of warning.
Careful, I say with my eyes, she's crazy!
He raises his eyebrows at me in response, then presses his lips together and shifts his gaze to Melisandre before our silent exchange can arouse any suspicion. Taking that as my cue to leave, I step outside and close the door behind me, shaking my head as I go.
My weird feeling doesn't go away. There's a side window I can slip by on my way to return the letters, and I'm tempted to eavesdrop, but that doesn't seem right. Wryly, I wonder if her Lord of Light would rat me out. If he didn't, probably someone else would spot me. I pause long enough to hear Melisandre's distinctive purr of "Come with us when we ride south," tell myself it's just war talk, and head down the walkway towards the maester's quarters.
You're on your own now, Jon Snow, I think to myself.
If he can fling fire at a walking corpse, I suppose he can handle the Red Woman.
A/N: Thanks for all faves/follows/reviews! (Even the one from the sourdough guy, who appears to be the type that only comments on the fics they don't like and stays silent on the ones they do. Idk if you're of any use to the authors you enjoy, but I'm the one whose review count went up, so… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) (also, the boom boom stuff comes later, bro, she's kinda trying to lie low here?)
Also, shoutout to ZainR, who made an edit for last chapter! Can't really link it here, but you can find it on twitter if you search "shireen katniss." Thank you, Zain! I'm thrilled you loved the scene that much! :D