Chapter Thirty: The Songbird and the Snitch

On our way to the kitchens, Gilly and I pass through the dining hall. Ser Davos is in there, sitting by the fire and whittling away at a piece of wood. He glances up and offers us a friendly greeting before his primary focus returns to the project he's working on, which is starting to take the shape of a four-legged animal.

"What's that?" I ask, slowing down to get a better look.

Davos carves a bit more off the side and brushes off the shavings. "A gift, for Princess Shireen," he replies, twisting it around as if to model it. "Supposed to be a stag, but it's not quite finished." Then, as an afterthought, he peers back up at me. "You can keep a secret, can't you?"

I offer a wry smile in return. "I've got plenty of them, myself. What's one more?" I say with a half-shrug.

Davos chuckles good-naturedly, and my eyes linger over the wooden carving as another memory claws its way to the surface. A roughly carved wooden star hanging from a woven grass necklace around Rue's neck. It was her tribute token, I think, and it was supposed to bring good luck. Hopefully Shireen's house sigil will serve her better.

"It's beautiful," I tell him, dragging myself out of those thoughts. "She'll love it."

"Thank you, milady," says Davos, and gets back to his carving. "I certainly hope so."

I follow Gilly into the kitchens, where Hobb has greens to cut up, meat to carve, and birds to pluck. At least I'll have tasks to keep me distracted for a while, and Gale can't bother me in here. Hobb may be missing some fingers but he seems pretty handy with that cleaver, and I doubt he'd take too well to a stranger coming in and harassing Gilly and me while we work. For my own amusement, I picture Gale walking in, Hobb casually picking up the cleaver and strolling over to him, and Gale raising his hands in surrender as he quickly backs out.

That fantasy ends after Hobb heads out to the larder, leaving Gilly and me alone. And Little Sam, of course. He's so well-behaved that save for a baby sneeze or coo now and then, it's easy to forget he's there. I wonder if that's because his early days have been spent needing to flee the terrors of the north in silence, or draw no attention to himself as a wildling child being hosted by the Night's Watch. All the same, even he wouldn't respond well to Hobb – or me – violently chasing out an intruder. Reconsidering my daydream, I pause briefly to give Little Sam a fond tickle.

Gilly hears him laugh, and smiles at us as she plucks at some feathers. Then her smile slips away gradually, fading to something a bit more pensive, a look I've seen on her face a couple of times since we've been in here. Like she's lost in thought.

Usually, we have a good back-and-forth even with Hobb present, mostly involving the food or the jobs at hand so it's easy for me. It hasn't affected that, so maybe nothing's amiss. I brush it off and resume chopping vegetables.

Seconds later, Gilly's voice breaks through the silence. "What's an 'arena boyfriend'?" she asks, carefully pronouncing the words.

My hand almost slips in mid-chop. "What…?" I choke out, attempting to swallow my panic.

"Gale asked you if you were worried another one of your arena boyfriends will realize your relationship started out on a lie," Gilly says. Her plucking slows, and she looks up at me again. "What did he mean?"

"He, uh…" I start chopping again nervously, keeping my eyes on the knife. "I think what he means by 'arena boyfriend' is a guy you're close with when you both find yourself someplace dangerous, or you're on an adventure or something, and you need to work together in order to survive."

"Oh…" She sounds like she accepts my answer. Or at least the definition. I hear her plucking again, taking handfuls of feathers at a time. "So, when we were running away from Craster's Keep and heading toward the Wall, Sam was my arena boyfriend." There's a hint of amusement in her tone. When I glance over at her, she's beaming at the term like she thinks it's cute.

"Yeah. Exactly," I say, feeling more than a little relieved. But as much as I like those two together, I probably shouldn't have her going around calling him that, so I backtrack. "Well, it's meant in kind of a romantic sense. Gale was just trying to give me a hard time."

"You mean he was talking about Jon," Gilly says shrewdly. And before I have time to lament her cleverness, another epiphany flashes across her face. "And the lie…" She pauses, letting the thought ruminate while my panic blossoms anew. "It's that you haven't told him where you're from. How you got here."

Guiltily, I look away again, but don't bother to use chopping as a distraction. Yes, that's true. But that's not it.

Gilly takes my silence as confirmation. "I'm sure he'll understand," she says softly. "Just like Sam and I did when you told us. You could have Beetee speak to him too—"

"I already told him about Beetee. It's not that," I interrupt, and set the knife down on the table with a sigh. "It's something else."

"What is it?" Gilly presses. Her voice sounds wary, but still gentle. I look at her nervously, and her face softens. Putting down the half-plucked bird, she comes closer to me, sensing that this is something bigger. "Katniss, it's all right," she says. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."

I hesitate, studying the sincerity in her eyes. I want to tell someone so badly, if only to undo one of the knots in my stomach. "And you won't tell anyone else? Not even Sam?"

Her eyebrows jump up in surprise, and she looks concerned yet almost flattered to share in such an exclusive secret. "Not even Sam," she echoes. "I promise."

That's good enough for me, but the hardest part is what comes next. I briefly peek out the windows in case there's anyone passing by who could overhear, then take a deep breath and lean against the edge of the table. Even though the bubbling pot of stew should be loud enough to cover it up, I drop my voice to a low, conspiratorial tone.

"You know how Jon let me stay here because I was sent by his uncle, Benjen Stark?" I remind her, hugging my arms around myself. "Because I had news of him?"

Gilly immediately nods. "That he's alive," she says, smiling.

My stomach sinks, and I bite my lip hard. If I can't handle telling her…

"No, Gilly," I whisper, forcing myself to meet her gaze. "He's not."

The words take a minute to settle. I see the smile drain from her face like blood, leaving nothing but stunned confusion in her eyes as she stares back at me, all the warmth from them gone.

"I don't understand," she says, her voice cool and guarded as she raises it a little. "You said you talked to him."

Because it's Gilly, her change of demeanor takes me aback. "I did."

"But then you saw him die," she says.

I shake my head. "No. He was already dead when I talked to him—"

"The dead can't talk, Katniss," Gilly says sharply. Little Sam bleats in disapproval at the edge in his mother's tone, so she goes over to give him a comforting touch.

"Apparently they can," I argue, keeping my voice down.

"That doesn't make any sense," Gilly insists. "How do you know he was dead?"

I go and sit down at the table where Sam's cradle rests. "He basically implied it. I asked him why he couldn't return to Castle Black and he said, 'The dead cannot pass.' And he told me not to tell Jon what he'd become," I explain in a rush, then tent my fingers beneath my chin. "He didn't look like a wight or anything, at least not the ones I've seen. But he was pale as death. His skin was grey. Some of the flesh on his cheek had decayed."

Gilly sits down too, holding Sam close. She's thinking hard again, but it's clear she doesn't know what to make of this. "But he spoke to you," she says after a moment. "And he helped you fight the white walkers."

I nod, which is hard to do on tented fingers. "Like I said, he wasn't one of them," I say. "He was just… undead."

"Like a ghost?" Gilly asks. "You met him in the Haunted Forest."

A shrug from me this time. "Could a ghost hand me my game bag? I thought things went right through them."

"I don't know," she says, and offers me a weak smile. "I've never met one."

I manage to crack a half-grin, but it fizzles out fast. "Gilly, how am I supposed to tell Jon that his uncle's never coming through that gate?" I mutter. "He's got enough to worry about with the Hardhome trip. And if I tell him now, he might go looking for him. Which is kind of the reason Benjen asked me not to say anything in the first place."

Now that Sam's been soothed into a drowsy state, Gilly sets him back in his cradle. "Well, until Jon knows the truth, the longer his uncle takes to return, the more he'll worry. At least if you give him an answer, he'll stop wondering." She picks the bird back up and starts pulling at feathers again. "I just wonder what happened to him. If he died on that side of the Wall, you'd think he'd have been touched by a white walker. But his body wasn't burned, so why didn't he turn into one? And how come he's talking?"

"No idea," I tell her. "But he is. That's the whole reason why I'm even here."

Gilly considers me for a moment, conflicting emotions crossing her face. At last, she sighs wistfully. "You'd think the answer would be in one of those old books and scrolls in the library," she says, turning the bird carcass thoughtfully. "Maybe Sam would know."

I drop my hands to the table and look at her. "You promised not to tell Sam," I say.

She gives me a resigned side-glance. "Fine," she concedes, and plucks more feathers. "Maybe I'll look into it myself. You're just lucky Shireen taught me how to read."

I relax my shoulders, exhaling in relief. "Thank you."

"You still need to tell him, though," Gilly replies quietly. "Jon."

"I know," I say, taking a feather and twirling it between my fingers. "Just thought I'd start with you."

Her expression softens, but before either of us can say anything else, I hear a door opening, and a pair of boots with a purposeful tread thudding into the dining hall. At first I think it's Hobb coming back from the larder, which would've been enough to bring me to my feet, but a troubling feeling draws me towards the door to the dining hall. That's when I hear Stannis's voice on the other side.

"It's time," he says. My heart drops into my stomach.

There's the scraping of wood against stone floor as Davos hastily stands up. "Uh, Your Grace!" he tries. "Wouldn't it be better to wait?"

Yes, Stannis, I think. Listen to your Hand.

"When Jon Snow returns with the wildlings, we could have thousands more men—"

"If Jon Snow returns with the wildlings," says Stannis. "We can't wait that long. We have the advantage – more men, more horses, all fed and rested. But every day we wait, the odds shift in Bolton's favor. This could turn to winter at any moment." Peeking through a crack in the door, I see Stannis gesturing outside. "We have to act now. Give the order. We march at sunrise."

Davos steps forward with some reluctance. "I'll choose a dozen men to stay, and guard the queen and the princess," he says.

I feel hope flicker in my chest like a small candle. Could it be that Gale was wrong after all?

Then Stannis says the thing that makes that same hope sputter and die. "No need. They're coming with us."

I don't even think about what I do next. Pushing open the door, I burst out into the dining hall and stride towards him with a pounding heart and one purpose in mind.

"Your Grace, I was wondering if I might ask you to reconsider," I call out, causing both men to turn toward me in surprise. Stannis's naturally hardened gaze stalls me at first, but I find my breath and stand my ground. "In my experience, it's better for girls her age to be nowhere close to a battlefield."

Ser Davos glances back at Stannis expectantly. "It's a tough road ahead, Your Grace," he says in my defense, and gestures to me. "Perhaps they would be safer—"

"Here?" Stannis says, his eyebrows lifting with heavy skepticism. "Half these watchmen are killers and rapists."

"Half of them support Jon," I remind him firmly. "And will defend the queen and the princess if he asks." Knowing what I do of Stannis, I try to appeal to him next with logic. "The Night's Watch only has fifty men, half of that is twenty-five, and if a dozen of yours stay to guard, the half you're worried about will be outnumbered."

Although Davos seems satisfied with my answer, Stannis only needs half a second before he goes back to looking supremely unimpressed.

"Many of the men who support Jon Snow will likely be accompanying him to Hardhome," he reminds me in turn. "Say I did leave a dozen men, but Jon took twenty of his—"

"I could handle the other eight," I say without hesitation.

Stannis scoffs, though with him I can't tell if it's scornful or genuine amusement. "Could you…" he says.

Either way, he's not convinced. He moves like he's headed out the door, and I feel desperation surging through me as I follow him with two more insistent strides. "Please, Your Grace!" I say, prepared to beg just as I did with Haymitch for Peeta's life. He pivots again, and I lower my voice in an attempt at humility. "I think Shireen should stay at Castle Black with me."

For a moment, we are blanketed by silence, except for the faint sounds of metal clanking and wind blowing outside. Stannis regards me coldly, his blue eyes holding more of a chill than the winds at the top of the Wall. "You don't trust I can protect my own daughter?" he asks, his own voice dangerous and quiet.

I stare back at him, my eyes not leaving his, hoping they hold the exact same amount of ice.

"All due respect, Your Grace," I say, matching his volume, "the last time I trusted a person to protect someone I cared about, he helped build the weapon that ended up destroying her."

His stony expression wavers, only a fraction of an inch, but then frosts over again. "Shireen is my daughter, Miss Everdeen. Not yours," he intones. "I suggest you remember that." To Davos, he adds decisively, "They march with us."

With that, he walks out of the dining hall, leaving me to exhale shakily before exchanging a glance with Davos.

"As you wish, Your Grace," he replies, giving me a sympathetic eyebrow raise that says we tried, and then he follows Stannis out onto the wooden balcony.

My heart is still racing. My mind prods me to go back and help Gilly, but panic overtakes the thought. Sunrise. I have mere hours until I lose Shireen. Gale is right, this is something I cannot do again. It's as if this is the eve of the reaping, and tomorrow I know my sister will be picked and dragged away to the arena. Except I can't switch places with her this time.

But I can volunteer.

I hasten out the door onto the balcony, following them to the staircase. "Then let me go with you," I blurt out. Davos stops and turns again, but Stannis merely slows his pace as he glances over his shoulder. In my peripheral vision, I see Melisandre spot us from the other side of the courtyard and start drifting down the stairs, which rattles me but reminds me of a point I can make. "Gale said you seemed like you were trying to recruit. You need the men—"

"Yes, I need the men," Stannis replies, not so subtly putting emphasis on the last word.

"You've seen what I can do with a bow," I persist. "I could hunt, keep Shireen safe. And I can fight if I have to." He holds off his descent and finally turns to face me. My nerves are making me shake, so I grip the railing before he notices. "I've wanted to see more of Westeros anyway. Bring me with. I do have war experience, you know. And Shireen could use the company."

Maybe it's my imagination, but Stannis honestly appears to be considering the proposal. Or at least trying to search for reasons why it wouldn't make sense. Judging by Davos's expression, he doesn't think it's such a bad idea, and he's the Hand. Again, he looks to the king expectantly. And that's when Melisandre's voice rings out from below.

"I'm afraid that is impossible," she says, climbing one of the staircases to us. She joins Stannis at his side and gazes at me with her usual intense serenity. "The Lord Commander needs you here."

I furrow my brow at her. "He said that?" I ask.

"It was not Jon Snow who told me, but the Lord of Light," she answers, and takes a step toward me. "One day your place will be at Winterfell, Girl on Fire. Of that, I am certain. But for now, it is here. With Jon Snow." Reaching out, she cups my cheek in her gloveless hand. I'm too baffled by its unusual warmth to recoil, even when her wide red eyes are right in my face. "He will have need of you soon," she says confidently, "and you will serve a far greater purpose than you would with King Stannis."

Stunned, I back away from her touch. "Why do I get the feeling you don't want me there?" I say, replacing bewilderment with suspicion. "You're the one who insisted I was still the Mockingjay—"

"And who better than the Mockingjay for Jon Snow to have by his side," Melisandre returns, "when he unites the wildlings and the Night's Watch against a common enemy?"

I have no counterpoint for that other than silence, so she takes that as a sign that her message has been received, and smiles at Stannis as she leads the two men back down the stairs. I watch them go, clutching the railing harder. Her answer has done little to satisfy me. It's as if, in offering to join them, I have tried to cross into a different arena, and Melisandre the Gamemaker has gently dropped me back into this one. Denying me the opportunity to solve two problems at once. No, I cannot be there to protect Shireen.

And Jon…

A baby's coo makes me whirl back around. There, I find Gilly standing behind me and holding Little Sam. The lip-biting and troubled expression tells me she's overheard things again.

"You were going to leave," she says.

"Gilly—" I start, bracing myself.

"Why did you want to leave with Stannis?" she asks, not loud enough to disturb Sam but loud enough to scold. She looks more upset.

I guide her back into the empty dining hall, away from potential eavesdroppers. "Look. Gilly," I say with a sigh. "When I tell Jon the truth, he'll probably want to kick me out anyway. I figured I might as well have someplace to be."

Gilly shakes her head. "Oh, that's not true…"

"The whole reason he let me stay at Castle Black was because I brought him the news his uncle was still around," I point out. "What kind of warm reception do you think I'll continue to get when I tell him, 'Oh yeah, he's dead, actually'?"

"He let you through because you passed on the message," says Gilly.

"Yeah, and I left a pretty crucial part out," I mumble.

"Not the part where Benjen asked him to keep you safe," she fires back.

I cross my arms, hugging them to my chest. "I'm on this side of the Wall now. He's given me food and lodging for two weeks. He's done enough," I say.

"But you've cooked, and hunted, and—"

"Earned my keep. Yes, he's said that too," I tell her. "Once Stannis's army is gone, there'll be less demand for that. Fewer mouths to feed."

Gilly deflates, knowing each of her arguments are falling flat. "You heard the Red Woman out there," she says softly, hugging baby Sam close. "He still needs you."

This makes me falter. Perhaps Melisandre is right, and the portal – or even her Lord of Light – brought me to this place for a reason. Some sort of purpose I'm meant to serve. Something that's tied me to Jon Snow since the beginning, just as I went into my first arena with my boy with the bread. But I already know how that story ends.

"And when he doesn't need me?" I ask.

Unhappiness creeps across Gilly's face, which makes me feel bad. Maybe I'm letting what Gale said get to me too much.

"I'm not going anywhere right now," I say quietly. "Just trying to think ahead."

"Well… I think you're underestimating him," Gilly replies, turning and walking with me to the kitchens.

I try for a smile, wishing that I could believe that. Peeta was warm, and kind, and understanding, and my confession still left him cold and hollow. But it's like I told Gale, and I must continue to tell myself. For better or for worse, Peeta is not Jon, and Jon is not Peeta.

"Maybe," I say, and follow her inside.

Shireen and I don't see each other again until supper. I catch her in the dining hall before she needs to go sit with her parents, and she still looks a bit teary-eyed as she tells me what I already know. Selyse told her as soon as I left the room, kept her busy making preparations to leave and ordered her not to bother me while I was working in the kitchens. I can't help but glare in the queen's direction when I hear this.

"Father already stayed two days longer than he wanted because I asked it of him," Shireen admits. "Ser Davos gave the order. We're going."

"I know," I say, wiping away some of her unshed tears with my thumb. I used to worry about touching the greyscale side of her face, but she's assured me it doesn't hurt. "I'll sing some of your favorite songs at dinner, okay?"

"Okay," she agrees. When she wanders off, I notice Gale watching us from a table of Baratheon soldiers and match his stare challengingly. It's a good thing he's made some friends – or acquaintances that tolerate his presence – because I'm not sitting anywhere near him.

Since Stannis's men know they're departing Castle Black in the morning, tonight they flood me with requests to sing their own favorites instead. "A Cask of Ale," "Fallen Leaves," "The Maids that Bloom in Spring," a couple of war songs I know by now, and some of my father's songs that they like. I have to admit, I'm embarrassed to be singing in front of Gale like this. It's not a side of me he's seen very often, and going by his expression, I'd say he's not enjoying the performance quite as much as the rest of the men. But I force myself to ignore him, to tune him out as the hall fills with boisterous drunken voices joining me in a chorus of "The Bear and the Maiden Fair."

One singing soldier gets up and spins me when the girl in the song proclaims she'll never dance with the bear, and I'm laughing as I sing, and I see Shireen laughing too. From his council seat, he's not singing along like she is, but even Jon looks amused. I'm happy, even just for this moment as I let myself forget. Between songs, I activate my camera to preserve the rest. Not for Beetee, but for myself.

By the end of the meal, I run out of time to sing the ones Shireen loves. I stop her as she's leaving the dining hall and apologize, but she assures me it's all right. Even so, I make sure to promise her before Selyse herds her to the King's Tower that I'll see her later and sing them to her personally. Her mother is all too anxious to draw her away from me, but Buttercup crosses her path along the way and Shireen picks him up, hugging him for comfort. I can only stare at Buttercup as his mashed-up face pokes over her shoulder, meet his rotting squash eyes, and silently command him to be extra loving to her this evening.

But when I turn around, I witness a sight more upsetting than Shireen being taken from me, and far more disturbing than Buttercup.

It's Gale and Jon, walking away from the dining hall staircase side by side. They appear to be discussing something. A ripple of unease courses through me, causing my legs to practically start moving on their own to follow them. Nothing good can come from Gale and Jon talking alone.

Unless Jon is trying to convince him to walk out one of Castle Black's gates. I slink after them through the crowd, hopeful.

"Yeah, I heard. The, uh… 'Songbird of Castle Black,'" Gale says, and scoffs.

Jon barely looks his way. "You don't approve," he notes.

"It just seems a little demeaning, is all," says Gale, in that passive-aggressive mumble of fake humility that's fooling no one. He's agitated and it's making him bolder. "I mean, back home she was the Mockingjay and now you've got her singing like some sort of pet canary."

"No one's forcing her to," says Jon. "She does more than enough by hunting for us. She can stop singing if she wishes, but she seems to enjoy it." There's a pause before he adds, "And aren't mockingjays songbirds as well? She told me her father used to sing to them."

Gale breathes in sharply through his nose. "No. They're not just songbirds," he says tersely, and then huffs out a slow sigh. "I don't think you have any idea how important she is. What she was to Panem."

Apprehension climbs up my stomach like a ladder, clutching at my chest and throat like rungs. I keep following, but slow down suddenly when Jon does.

"I'm not sure it matters if she has no intention of returning," he says after a moment. Inwardly, I cheer; at least I have Jon on my side in this. "You know her quite well. Katniss says you were friends since she was twelve."

"Yeah, our fathers worked in the coal mines together. Died in the same accident," Gale tells him. "Few months later, I found her in the woods, inspecting my snares. We started hunting together after that, trying to keep both our families fed." He scoffs out a weak chuckle, reminiscing. "Imagine, this… skinny little twelve-year-old, practically swimming in her father's hunting jacket, sneaking under District 12's electric fence and hunting in the forest every day to make sure her mother and sister wouldn't starve to death."

Even Jon laughs a little, probably trying to picture it. Not that he needs to stretch his imagination much; the jacket is still too big for me. "I would've liked to have known her then," he says, almost wistfully.

Gale says something in reply, but I don't hear it because I'm too busy trying to imagine Jon Snow six years younger in our woods. I just hear Jon chuckle again.

"That doesn't seem to have changed," he says, looking over at Gale with a grin.

I wrinkle my brow, frowning at his back suspiciously. What hasn't changed? But gradually the mirth seems to fade from him. He turns his face from Gale, squares his shoulders, and picks up the pace again.

"So, if you two were so close, why is it that she's never mentioned you before?" he asks, his tone clipped and somewhat cooler. "Why is she so angry with you?"

This time, Gale is the one who slows down. My heart does the opposite, pounding faster as it leaps to my throat. I know what he's going to say even before he says it. His head lowers, and the words come out in a shameful whisper. "Because I'm the reason her sister's dead."

Jon stops altogether, freezing in his tracks and swinging around to gape at him in horror. I quickly duck behind a wooden beam so he doesn't notice me, but it might not have been necessary. His eyes, wide with a mix of astonishment and outrage, are fixed solely on the man standing before him. The man who has essentially just confessed to killing my little sister. And as I watch, a look of ghastly understanding spreads across his face.

"You were in the Hunger Games?" he says. A question and a statement – and the last thing I expected to come out of his mouth.

Gale reels back with a blink, nearly rendered speechless in his confusion. "What?" is all he gets out.

"You were the winning tribute," Jon persists accusingly. "The year her sister went in."

"The year her sister went in?" Gale repeats, right as I realize my mistake and resist the urge to rake my fingers down my face. "Wait, what did Katniss tell you about that?"

"She did mention you," says Jon, still brimming with epiphany. "She said your name was in there forty-two times, but I never—"

"Hold on. You've got it all wrong," Gale interrupts. "Prim and I were never in the Games. Katniss was."

I slap a hand to my mouth to trap the ragged breath that almost escapes me. Jon stares at Gale uncomprehendingly, brows knitting together, eyes searching as he tries to make sense of it. He does a half-shake of his head. "The reaping – she told me Prim's name was drawn—"

"Yeah, it was, but then Katniss volunteered for her!" Gale says incredulously. He looks around to see if anyone's overheard him, and I instinctively retreat another half-step behind my wooden beam. I don't know why I do this, I should be charging out there right now and stopping him before he can say another word. But instead, I am frozen, unable to tear my eyes away from Jon as I study his reaction.

Jon lowers his gaze, forehead still bunched up in thought. After a few seconds, his face clears, and he breathes out a little puff of air. "She was in the Games," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world and he can't believe he missed it.

"Twice," says Gale.

Instantly, Jon looks back up. "Twice…?"

"She and Peeta won the 74th Games, and then the next year—"

"They reaped the victors for the Quarter Quell," Jon finishes for him, understanding taking over once more. But then his eyebrows shoot up again in surprise. "Wait, Peeta? Peeta Mellark? Her – fiancé, Peeta?"

"That's the one," Gale confirms wryly. "Their engagement was more of a… result of the Games. But he was her district partner, not me. Both times."

"But they both won the Games? I thought only one could—" He cuts himself off in realization. "There was a rule change that year."

"Yeah, Peeta had a hand in that," says Gale. "During the pre-Games interviews, where the host talks to each tribute, he confessed his love for her in front of everyone. Got the entire audience rooting for them. The 'Star-Crossed Lovers of District Twelve.'"

I feel a painful twinge in my chest at the way he says it. With an air of importance, but unmistakable undertones of the truth that lies beneath.

Jon hears it too. "They didn't really love each other, then," he says, but he sounds questioning, doubtful. "It was… an arranged marriage of sorts. It wasn't real."

"No, it was real," Gale replies, and his firm voice muffles the dry half-sob that threatens to choke me as Peeta's real or not real echoes in my mind. I clamp my palm harder against my mouth, the only weapon I have against stifling the emotions building up inside of me. "It was always real for Peeta. For Katniss, at first it was what it's usually about with her. Survival, keeping the people she cares about alive. But he won her over. Maybe it was in the Quarter Quell, the way he was willing to give up everything for her. That's when she realized." Gale sighs, glancing away from Jon. "But I knew, in the first arena… when I saw her kiss him in that cave…"

He mumbles something else, but I don't hear it, and I don't think Jon does either. His lips part slightly and he looks away too, putting a hand to his mouth before dragging it down his beard.

At this point, I've resolved to absolutely never leave from this hiding place, when suddenly Jon frowns in bemusement. "You saw her kiss him?" he repeats. "How did you see her kiss him if they were in a cave?"

Gale winces briefly, before a different expression takes over his face. Resignation and something else. "They televise the Games," he explains. "Every aspect of it. The reaping, the chariots, the interviews, and the Games themselves. There's cameras everywhere – tools that let you see what's happening, let people watch from the Capitol or at home in the districts so when their children die, they don't miss a moment. The arenas – they're not like amphitheaters, they're…" He digs something out of his pocket and holds a device in the palm of his hand, poking at it carefully. "Here. It's easier if I just show you."

It's such a brazen decision that I don't even grasp what he's about to do until I hear the beep, and suddenly there I am, projected into the air in a small vision of light. Jon backs up a step, eyes enormous, at the sight of sixteen-year-old Peeta and me climbing down from the Cornucopia after the wolf mutts disappear into the hole in the earth. The projection fuzzes and our onscreen selves speed to the lake, indicating that Gale has pressed fast-forward. And then it stops, and I hear a muted version of Claudius Templesmith's booming voice emanate from the device.

"—has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

I see Peeta get up despite his bloodied leg. I see my onscreen counterpart load my bow and aim an arrow at his heart. I see Jon's jaw drop at the sight of it, another shaky breath misting out as something flickers in his eyes, illuminated by the projection's glow.

Onscreen Peeta drops his weapon and I do too as our argument begins, me demanding, him pleading. One of us has to go home, but neither of us can bear to do the unthinkable. You can hear the desperation in my tone as I refuse to let him leave me.

"Then you shoot me," I hear myself say furiously. "You shoot me and go home and live with it!"

He rips off his bandage, but I drop to my knees and struggle to put it back on. I can smell the lake and the blood and it's like I'm back there again, the same fear and grief still there with the rest of the pain I've felt since then stacked on top of it, making it hard to breathe. It's so vivid I remember exactly what I thought in that moment – that if Peeta died, I would never really go home. I'd spend the rest of my life in that arena, trying to think my way out.

Which makes me wonder, if I had never come to Westeros, would I still be stuck in the Capitol? Stumbling through the sewer tunnels, or navigating the horrors of the City Circle?

It's only when I hear Peeta say, "We both know they have to have a victor," that I come back to myself, tears streaming down my cheeks. Just like the first time I heard it, indignation rises within me, and I angrily wipe them away. Now the Peeta on the screen is going on about how he loves me, and it's too much. As the arena Katniss grabs for the pouch on her belt, I launch myself out of my hiding spot and storm towards Gale and Jon.

"Gale!" I shout, making them both pivot with a start. I know I sound tremulous and watery, but I don't hesitate, smacking my palm down on the projection light as Jon backs up a couple of steps. Gale flinches in pain but I grab at his hand again and find the button that turns the device off. The vision shrinks into nothingness mere seconds after our onscreen selves bring the berries to our lips, the audio cutting off right at Claudius Templesmith's shouts to stop.

He starts to pull it away, maybe put it back in his pocket. "Katniss—"

"Are you crazy?" I snap, wrenching it from him and clutching it in my fist. "In front of Jon? In front of everyone?!"

"It wasn't in front of everyone—"

"Whatever happened to 'they could burn you as a witch,' huh?" I ask, electing to ignore the diminished crowd in the courtyard. It doesn't seem like anyone who remained is reacting, so maybe they didn't see or notice, or Jon's body blocked the view. Or they've seen me play Crazy Cat at night and thought the glow was the flashlight. But it doesn't matter to me if no one else saw it. What matters is that Jon did.

"You've shown him things too," Gale says, though he doesn't sound accusing but weakly defensive.

"Yeah, photographs!" I say. "Things that could easily be seen as portraits! Not the pictures that, you know, move!"

Gale swallows hard, guilt glazing over his eyes and creasing his features. "I just… needed him to understand what he was dealing with here," he says.

I glare at him. In my peripheral vision, Jon looks like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it and closes his mouth, simply watching us.

"Fine," I say, unclenching my trembling fist, and throw the device at Gale's feet in the snow. "Why don't you two go back into the dining hall, sit down at a table together, and share stories about me over a flagon of ale. Show him all the footage of the Games you want. I don't care."

Then, I turn to Jon, who I can already tell is looking at me differently. Like he's seeing me for the first time.

"Or maybe," I say more quietly, "the next time someone tells you they were responsible for my sister's death, you could consider not hanging on their every word."

The stricken remorse that fills Jon's eyes is almost enough to break me, but I can't allow myself to be shaken by this. Turning my gaze away, I move around him and walk straight for the courtyard passage below the rookery, leaving him and Gale behind.

A/N: Thanks to all new follows, faves, and (re)views! As you can see, Gale wasn't done pressing buttons...