Chapter Thirty-Six: Therebefore

Olly furrows his forehead harder, mouth twitching as his eyes dart briefly around before focusing back on me, like he's not sure if he should ask to be invited inside. Slightly confused, and still uncertain myself, I push the door open a little more and take a step back, silently extending the invitation for him. He hesitates at first, but he must realize he's letting the cold in, because he quickly recovers and hastens through the threshold.

"I know you're not a wildling," he says right off the bat, the words coming out in a rush as I'm closing the door behind him. Astonished, I whirl around, using my back to shut it the rest of the way. He's turned to face me as well. His features continue to tremble with a nervous energy, but his eyes have steadied and grown bright with resolve. "You're not from here. You don't know what they're like. What they've done."

I blink at him, still processing the "not a wildling" part. Took you long enough, I think to myself. But then I hear what else he's saying. "I know what people have told me," I counter, walking past him to my nightstand. "I saw the fire. The battle at the Wall. Fifty Night's Watch men were killed, I know they're dangerous…"

"Then why are you going to Hardhome?" Olly demands, as I'm reaching for my cup. Hesitating, I turn my head again. His fists are balled and shaking at his sides. "Jon – he listens to you. You could talk him out of it. Convince him not to go."

"Olly—" I start to say.

"They're not worth saving!" he bursts out.

I'm taken aback, not only at the desperation in his voice – he must be desperate if he would come to me for help – but at what immediately springs to mind when he says it. A vision of Snow, being rescued from the rubble by Lucy Gray. I would have tried to stop her too. And here is where the disconcerting nighttime thoughts come creeping back into my head. Where eighteen-year-old Snow dies, and another enemy rises to power. Where the Hunger Games not only continue, but get worse…

I grab my cup for solace, letting my fingers soak in its heat once more. I'm about to take a drink when I consider Olly's tremulous form. "Do you want the rest of this?" I ask, holding it out to him. "It's still warm."

He looks confounded and a little annoyed by the subject change, then casts a suspicious glance at the creamy brown contents. "What's in it?" he asks.

"It's hot chocolate, not poison," I say, rolling my eyes.

"You drink it, then," says Olly.

"I have been—" I stop, deciding it's not worth it, and toss back the remnants of the drink in a few gulps. It's still rather hot, so I have to breathe out and fan my mouth a bit. "Whew, should have blown on it first," I mutter. Then I pour another half-cup from the flagon and offer it to him again.

This time he takes it, with a flicker of amusement on his face at my expense. Then the humor of my chocolate-induced dragon breaths loses its effect on him. He sips tentatively, visibly gains interest, and drinks some more. But after a moment, he lowers the cup from his lips as his eyes turn distant and dark.

"Did he tell you what they did to my village?" he asks quietly, listless but with the undertones of raw anger. "They burned it to the ground. They shot an arrow through my father's head, butchered my mum, slaughtered everyone in their path." His voice, steadily rising, almost nears a shout here. "Even told me they were going to eat them—"

"Yeah, and what are they going to do to you when they're dead?" I say, maybe too sharply going by the look he gives me. "I don't know what the wildlings are like? You don't know the white walkers. You haven't been out there, you haven't seen death and decay bearing down on you, haven't heard their screams…"

I stop myself, remembering I'm talking to a kid who's probably disturbed enough already. A pang of guilt reverberates in my chest, and I sigh.

"Look, you have every reason to not want to help them," I say. "I know what it's like to watch people you love die before your eyes. But if you leave all those wildlings to the white walkers, you're adding that many soldiers to their army." I meet his gaze firmly. "And then you haven't gotten rid of them, you've just made them harder to kill."

Frowning, he tries to argue. "The Wall will stop them—"

"Will it?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "With fifty men?" Olly nurses his hot chocolate and looks doubtful, so I press on. "I don't know about you, Olly, but I'd rather have them on our side instead of the dead's. If we don't want them to be allies with the white walkers, we need to make them ours."

Olly sinks onto the edge of my bed, clutching his cup. "How can we trust them?" he asks.

"It's not about trust, it's about staying alive," I say, and I can't believe Haymitch's words are coming out of my mouth. If Olly is anything like I was back then, he probably still isn't convinced, so I try to appeal to him my way. "You understand the concept of a life debt, right? We get them to the other side of the Wall, we're saving their lives. They'll owe us."

"What if that means nothing to them?" he insists. "What if we let them through and they cut our throats while we sleep?"

"Then they'll be facing the dead alone," I tell him. "I'm not saying there aren't traitors out there. I'm saying they need us as much as we need them."

"That's easy for you to say," he says crossly. "They didn't kill anyone you knew."

Damn. He has me there. I huff some of the hair out of my eyes. "Maybe not," I agree. "And hey, maybe I'm being a hypocrite. One of the people who had a hand in my sister's death is dead now. The one who deliberately put her in harm's way? Yeah, I put an arrow through her heart." Olly glances up from his drink in shock. Satisfied at having seized his attention, I continue, "But the other two are still alive, and since then, they've found ways to make it up to me. One gave me supplies and safe passage to Westeros. The other agreed to go with King Stannis and protect Shireen."

Olly's mouth falls open. "The one you were arguing with – the hunter with the crossbow?" he says in disbelief, looking at me like I'm crazy. "You knew he helped kill your sister, and you sent him off with the princess?"

"I said he had a hand in her death," I repeat impatiently. "And that's my point, he knows what he owes me. He won't fail me again. He promised me."

Olly wrinkles his nose, scowling as he takes another sip of hot chocolate. Deep down, I can't blame him for being dubious. My theories on what happened between Snow and Lucy Gray post-Games have left me feeling a bit cynical towards trust as well. Sighing, I lean against the wall.

"Look, sometimes, you have to align yourself with questionable people," I say, my thoughts flitting between Lucy Gray and Snow and Coin and Gale. "Even if you can't stand them, or they've wronged you and the ones you loved. Because there's something more important that unites you. And that means you might have to save their life, or listen to their advice, or say yes to things that under normal circumstances, you'd never agree to." Like a symbolic Hunger Games, I think to myself. "It all comes down to making the choice that's best for everyone. The choice that ensures survival."

He doesn't look up, but his brow furrows harder in thought, as if something I said has resonated with him.

I latch on to that. "Every living person is going to be useful, Olly, even the wildlings," I say. "But if they're killing us and we're killing them, who wins in the end? Who benefits the most from our deaths? Sn—"

Then I have to clamp my mouth shut because the name Snow almost escaped my lips. Olly glances at me out of the corner of his eye. Quickly, I compose myself and find a way to recover from it.

"Sometimes I need the reminder too," I admit. "Back in Panem. When I was blind to everyone else but the people I cared about. When I wanted to just keep fighting the other districts like we'd done for years, as long as it meant protecting my own. But then I told myself the same thing my mentor told me." Though he's still avoiding my eyes, I look at him meaningfully, hoping the words will reach him in the same way. "'Just remember who the real enemy is.'"

I get a reaction, but not the one I'm aiming for. His head snaps up and he flicks his gaze to me, blue eyes widening as if I've slapped him. After a few seconds of staredown as he's searching my face, his expression dims and his eyes grow distant again. He sets the cup on the nightstand and gets up from the bed.

"Thank you for the chocolate," he says. "Goodnight, milady." And he's out the door.

"Goodnight...?" I say wryly, then shake my head and inspect the cup. He's drained it, so at least I'm not completely useless to him.

I help myself to what's left in the flagon and sit down on the mattress, releasing a slow breath. His response just now has bowled me over, but on second thought, I guess I was bristly and defensive too when Haymitch first said those words to me. Doesn't mean it didn't eventually make the impact he wanted. In the end, I understood. The enemy wasn't any of the tributes, but the one who trapped us in that arena together. The one who wanted all of us dead, along with everyone we held dear.

Olly's just a kid, so maybe he'll get it eventually. Know where to turn his weapon when the time comes. He's already surprised me once tonight. Maybe there's hope for him yet.

Was I really that stubborn, though? I take a long swig of my drink, suddenly feeling a great deal of sympathy for Haymitch.

Since the twelfth day after the Baratheon's departure is the morning we leave for Hardhome, most of the eleventh is spent making final preparations. While Beetee keeps doing some sleuthing on the treasonous Peacekeeper thing, he connects me to Haymitch, a conversation I think is long overdue considering the recent release of the 10th Games. There's too much to say, so I won't be able to risk sneaking it in while I'm en route to Hardhome, and it can't wait another few weeks for my return.

As soon as we're connected, Haymitch gets in his jab about me already talking to Greasy Sae a week before, and I defensively point out that she contacted me. Then we both laugh, because we know we're not fooling each other.

"Good to hear from you, sweetheart," he says, and the warmth in his voice melts all thoughts of Snow from my mind. "Where are you?"

"Westeros," I say, eyeing the creepy face on the weirwood tree. "Somewhere up north."

Haymitch chuckles. "Westeros, in the north," he echoes. "Well, can't say I blame you. Getting away from the current swelting hell we call Twelve. It's probably a whole lot cooler than it is down here."

"Oh, you have no idea," I say with a snort.

We catch up on a few things. He repeats the joke about the geese being less stressed with Buttercup not lurking around, tells me he's borrowed half my library because Effie wanted something to read while she was visiting and now she's more interested in the books than in him. Says all of District 12 has been abuzz with talk of Lucy Gray since the reveal of the 10th Games. Thanks to Beetee, they also got to see Commander Hoff's birthday footage, and now Posy's going around singing "Oh My Darling, Clementine" at the top of her lungs. That and multiple other songs have gotten stuck in his head ever since.

Victor to victor, we discuss Lucy Gray and her Games. After venting my own mad theories, I ask him about The Hanging Tree clue and what he thinks happened to her.

Haymitch draws out a contemplative sound before answering. "You're not going to like this, but maybe she killed herself."

"What?" I blurt out, making Ghost raise his head sharply. A cold, sinking feeling takes hold in my chest. "No, she wouldn't do that."

"You tried to," Haymitch retorts, which makes me fall silent. He softens his tone. "Your mother was the one who suggested it. It's right there in the first song. 'Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping.' 'Take it 'cause I'd give it free, it won't hurt'?"

"It's just a song," I argue, albeit feebly. That's what I said to Stannis about The Hanging Tree, and he didn't buy it for a second. "And Maude Ivory must've been like a little sister to her. She wouldn't abandon her like that."

"She was a victor, Katniss," Haymitch reminds me. "She went through a lot, before and after. One of her lovers was dead, and assuming your theory is correct, the other betrayed her. If something did happen out there, if she felt like there was a threat to her life and there was no other way, it seems to me like she'd rather give it free… that is, take her life for herself, on her own terms. Like you almost did."

"But I didn't," I point out.

"Only because Finnick intervened," Haymitch replies. "Probably still has the scar on his hand from where you bit him."

I fume silently. I could easily point out to him that I could've tried again when I was in solitary, that I actively planned it, and what did I do instead? I began to sing.

Yes, I know the pain of dead lovers and betrayal. I also know the trauma that stems from the Games. So does Haymitch. And for that matter, so does my mother. The Games, the mines, and the war took nearly everything from her. A best friend, a husband, a daughter, almost two of them. And she went numb, worse than I did, but she never took her life. And neither did Haymitch. And neither did I.

"I just… don't think that's the answer," I say slowly, frustrated with him and with myself. "We just come right back to the issue of never finding a body."

"So what is the answer?" Haymitch says impatiently. "Did he kill her? Did she get away?"

"I don't know!" I snap, and Ghost looks at me warily. "Look, sorry, I—"

"Something else bothering you, sweetheart?" he says knowingly. "You sound very protective about a girl who vanished sixty-six years ago."

I sink to the ground, sullen, stroking Ghost when he comes to me. "She was my family," I reply. "Our victor."

Haymitch makes another noise of acknowledgement. "Don't let it take hold of you, Katniss," he says. "Greasy Sae said you were pretty invested in this. Your mother did too. Said you went on for over an hour about the Games, and the love story... Granted, I'm impressed you put it all together, but you're never going to know what happened in those woods, so… let it go."

I groan petulantly, leaning my head back against the bark of the weirwood tree. He probably suspects I'm thinking of Prim and Peeta. That I need an outlet to channel all my protective impulses, my restless fears and energy and persistent need to problem-solve. That I'm just making a desperate attempt to fill the hole they left in my heart. And he's right, but I can't even begin to tell him that I already filled it once. And the hole that I'm awkwardly trying to seal with Lucy Gray is now princess-shaped.

"I mean it," he insists. "Lucy Gray's story is public now. Snow is dead, so even if he did kill her, justice is served. You're just breathing new life into him, obsessing over this and letting him get into your head like that. When you should be enjoying your 'vacation.'"

A prolonged, steady breath escapes me, drawing the tension out of my head. "You think I'm going mad?" I ask.

"Oh, you're already there," he answers, turning my grimace into a grin. "Have been for a while. Though, from what your mother tells me, a little madness runs in the family."

"Grandma Rosemary, she means," I say with a little scoff of laughter. She used to fret so much over her mother's behavior during her headaches, which seemed unfair. I'd be agitated too if mine were that bad.

"Yes, apparently this whole Lucy Gray mystery is reminding her of how alike you two are," says Haymitch.

Now I'm baffled. "In appearance, maybe," I say. The Baird and Everdeen genes are strong in me, dark hair and grey eyes and olive skin, but if I had my mother's nose, I'd be Rosemary in the face. When she put her own dark hair in a braid, it was uncanny. In terms of skills, though, Prim was her healing twin, not me.

But Haymitch isn't deterred. "No, in spirit, too," he says. "Your grandma had her own family mystery to solve, you know. The case of the missing birth parents. When she was young, all her dreams and fairytale books had her convinced she was a long-lost princess, a witch, a changeling, a mermaid… Unlike you, she didn't have good, solid footage to obsess over, but obsess she did. And when it didn't pan out, and she was just another name to go in the reaping bowl, she got angry. Angry at the Games, angry at both sets of parents… the birth parents for abandoning her in the woods, and the Ulbergs for forbidding her to enter them. She got rebellious in her teen years, but not quite to your level. The one time she did sneak into those woods, she got knocked up, so obviously, never again."

I make a face, because I really did not need to know that, or hear Haymitch say "knocked up." But then a thought occurs to me. "When she died… they found her body by the fence," I say quietly.

"Your mother mentioned that. Thinks in her confusion she was trying to go in," he admits. "It consumed her entire life, Katniss. Not knowing. Trying to piece it together but only having mementos and word of mouth to go by. Healing gave her something else to focus on, and being with loved ones helped. Your grandfather kept her grounded, protected her from rumors that she was a little—" I presume he's twirling his finger near his head. "And music made her happy too. Maysilee's canary, mockingjays, Maude and Gary. But your mother said she always got worse after losing people."

I'm silent for a moment. "Why didn't I know about this?" I ask. It feels like her "oh, my best friend Maysilee died in the Quarter Quell" revelation all over again.

"Didn't want to upset you," he replies. "She knew you two were close. And your grandma wasn't supposed to talk about it with you because your mother wanted her to pay attention to the family she actually had."

How ironic, I think to myself. But she's right. We were close. She read stories to me, I sang Covey songs to her. And I am upset that nobody ever told me this side of her, this side that is me. Rebellious and restless and stubborn to a fault, raised by the parents who volunteered. Is it possible that my fire came from my mother's side all along?

Hard to believe, as cold as she went when my father died. But maybe as down-to-earth as he was, he was the coal that she needed to keep burning. I guess in our family you either find something else to kindle your flame or you go out.

"I have gone too far with this, haven't I?" I say at last, and once the words pass my lips, I know it's the truth.

"Afraid so, sweetheart. As far as you can with it," Haymitch says. "Good job chasing Lucy Gray's siren song, but the woods are a dead end for you. Just as they were for your grandmother. The only ones who know what happened that day are Lucy and Snow. Now, I don't know about the girl, she could be alive to this day or she could be a ghost like the poem, but we know one thing for sure. Snow is good and gone. Don't bring him back." I hear him chug a drink in the background. "Do yourself a favor. Let her fate be a mystery, and let the bastard die."

I flinch at first, at the last part, but sigh in resignation. I've never been good at following orders, but in this case, it's my sanity at stake here. "Fine," I say.

"Yeah?" Haymitch says, surprised. I suspect he didn't think it would be that easy. "You got anything in Westeros to keep your mind off things? Any friends yet, dare I ask?"

"Friends, yeah," I say, annoyed with myself. Sam and Gilly should be at the front of my mind instead of Snow when I'm about to go a month without seeing them. "And a mission I'll be going on tomorrow."

"Good," says Haymitch. "Because the way you were getting about Snow, I almost didn't want to tell you the other detail you missed in the Games."

"What other detail?" I say immediately.

Haymitch snorts at me. "That was a test," he says. "You failed."

But when I groan in aggravation, he tells me. Thanks to Paylor, Plutarch, and Beetee, the intruders from the first night of the Games have been identified. One was Sejanus Plinth, the sandwich guy from the zoo; the other who joined him was Snow. Tigris confirmed that he had been sent in to retrieve his friend, and the bludgeoned tribute was his doing.

"Snow, with friends," I scoff, remembering Finnick's Capitol history lesson. "Snow killed all his friends. I bet—"

"Careful," Haymitch warns.

I end the connection with Haymitch on a promise that I'll stop trying to wake the dead. Then I switch to Beetee, who promptly lets me know he has some information for me.

"I was able to find out that the Peacekeeper hanged for treason was none other than Snow's classmate, Sejanus Plinth," Beetee says, making me grimace. "We recently discovered that the two of them broke into the arena on the first night. Perhaps Haymitch already told you this. Sejanus was sent to Twelve as a Peacekeeper that summer, same as Snow, and was caught on a jabberjay recording confessing to a rebel plot." He pauses for effect, then continues, "Tigris said they were friends, but it seems too perfect to be a coincidence. If you'd like, I could find out more—"

"Beetee!" I say, stopping him. "Thanks, but no thanks. You've done enough. You can go back to your drone."

"All right. If you're sure." I can almost see him lifting his eyebrows doubtfully above his glasses.

"I'm sure," I say adamantly. "No more footage. No more Games. No more Peacekeepers." Closing my eyes, I rest my head against the weirwood tree again and absently stroke Ghost's fur. "From now on, the only Snow I care about is—"

I cut myself off there, eyes snapping open again as I press my lips together in embarrassment.

"Is who?" Beetee says, amused.

Flustered, I taste denial on the tip of my tongue, a defensive retort that refuses to pass my lips. "You know who," I mutter, and click off.

I ride through the trees, letting the wind whip at my cheeks until they're rosy from the cold instead, and dismount at the lake. Kneeling at the edge, I gaze down at my reflection in the beautiful green water. When my first thought is that it looks like Lucy Gray, I lash out and shatter it into ripples. Then I splash some ice-cold water on my face.

After the water steadies, I see me again. Satisfied, I sink into the snow with a sigh and run my fingers through Ghost's soft white fur as he drinks from the lake.

"There's only one Snow to me now," I confide in him. "Only one that matters."

Ghost raises his head, looks at me appraisingly, and resumes drinking.

On the twelfth day after the Baratheons' departure, I rise early and pull my stuff together. What's left to pull together, anyway. Sam and Gilly agreed to hold on to some of my belongings for safekeeping, so we spent a good portion of yesterday making those arrangements. As Sam fully understands, I don't want anyone breaking into my room while I'm gone and messing with anything or discovering things they shouldn't. Most of the men staying are the ones who dislike Jon, so I don't feel comfortable leaving anything unguarded.

Granted, that includes Sam and Gilly, but at least they'll have Ghost. I also left them the spare earpieces Beetee gave me and demonstrated how to use them. I know we won't be able to do much from far away, but at least this lets them get hold of us if they need to. Warn us, maybe, if there's a mutiny like the one at Craster's Keep.

The parachute container with the pearl and the medallion stays with them. My handheld device, changes of clothes, other things I dug out of my pack to make room. The dragonglass game bag with most of its contents. And Buttercup, of course.

My specialty arrows and shadowskin are coming with me, though. Too valuable, too useful, too risky to leave behind. I don't want to come back to Castle Black and see someone's burnt down a tower or blown a hole in the dining hall while Sam and Gilly were busy tending to Maester Aemon.

A pang of sadness shoots through me at the thought of him. Yesterday, upon returning through the gate, I had resolved to do two productive things that day – spend whatever time I could with Sam, Gilly, Little Sam, and Maester Aemon, and contact Gale to discuss introducing Shireen to our communication devices. With the last day arrangements, kitchen duties, and the library, I'd gotten time with Sam and Gilly and the baby, but Maester Aemon was having one of his bad days and needed rest. I still ran my idea past Gale, but said I'd give him time to talk to her about it the next day since my mind was too preoccupied.

After changing into my Mockingjay suit and putting my hair in a braid, I bundle myself in my shadowskin, which Gilly has made into a makeshift cloak. Leaving my stuff at the door for now, I swiftly cross the walkway and make my way towards the maester's quarters.

Sam and Gilly are already there. Sam's just been up to feed the ravens, and Gilly is at Maester Aemon's bedside with Little Sam in her arms. Outside the maester's bedroom, Sam quietly confirms what's on my mind.

"He's still a bit delirious, but I'm sure he can manage a goodbye," he says. "Let's just say, it's good you have time to see him before you leave."

"You don't think he has a month left in him?" I ask.

Sam shakes his head softly, lowers his voice. "I don't think he has a week."

I close my eyes for a moment, enduring the wave of dull pain this brings. I hope that this is not true, that I'll come back and find him in the library or the rookery. Or at least smiling and upright in his bed, patiently awaiting another song. I've only known him a month, but Aemon has already touched the part of me that misses having grandparents. Though at his age, he'd be closer to a great-grandparent.

"Well, then I guess it's time to say goodbye to quite possibly the only dragon I'll ever meet," I say, trying to be lighthearted. "Or at least the oldest."

Sam manages a smile. "So there really aren't any Targaryens in Panem?" he says. "No Baratheons, Tarlys, Starks?"

"No Targaryens, no Baratheons or Tarlys, some Starks," I correct. Beetee and I were curious about this a while back, so he consulted recent population maps of Panem. Unsurprisingly, Stark was the only name that got any results, several families scattered along Nine, Three, Six, and parts of Two and Eight. Barely any left in Twelve, but then again, who is? "Not the same ones, obviously, but like their Westerosi counterparts, most of them are up north."

He nods thoughtfully. "And you say you've never had dragons."

"We have salamanders," I say, raising my eyebrows.

He actually laughs. "Salamanders?"

"Lots of them in Twelve. Rare as rocks," I reply with a shrug. "All the legends say that they're born in fire, live in it, not only survive the flames but have the power to put them out."

It's only a myth of course. What really happens is, they hibernate in rotting logs, so when you use them for a fire, the salamanders come scurrying out from their hiding place. I learned that the hard way, the winter that Gale and I first became friends. The fence's power had been turned on and we were stuck on the other side of it after dark, so he started a fire to keep us warm. Next thing I knew, this little creature had crawled on top of the flaming log and I was screaming, kicking snow and dirt at the fire to extinguish it. Gale spent the next five minutes roaring with laughter.

If that's how I react to a tiny salamander on a fire log, I can't imagine how I'd fare coming face-to-face with a full-grown dragon. Hard to believe there's a woman out there with three.

"None of it's true," I say, watching Sam's intrigued expression. "It's just funny that in any universe, people like to associate lizards with fire."

"I think salamanders are actually amphibians," Sam says nicely.

"Fine, amphibians. They don't breathe fire, though," I say, and think about it as I follow him into the room. "Unless that's why they call them The Smokies..."

"The Smokies?" Aemon croaks from his bed.

I come up to the side across from Gilly and rest my hand over his. "It's nothing, Maester Aemon," I say. "Just a mountain range in my district."

"Katniss will be leaving for Hardhome soon," Sam tells him. "She's come to say goodbye."

From the look of understanding on his face, Aemon knows what kind of goodbye this will turn out to be. He smiles gently as, sitting down, I say mine in barely over a whisper. His wrinkled hand slides free from mine and lifts from the bed, and I let him trace my features. My brow, my cheek, the shape of my nose. He pauses there, and his brow furrows for a moment, before dropping his hand as the smile returns to his face.

"Farewell, Katniss Everdeen," he says in a shaky rasp. "There's not been a songbird like you… since the days of… Lucy Snow."

My own smile drops from my lips. The name is ringing in my ear like the piercing chime of a parachute. I look over at Sam, begging for an answer since he usually has them all.

"Lucy Snow…?" I ask, my voice tight with confusion and restrained panic.

The only name that is supposed to be attached to Snow right now is Jon, and Jon is just Jon, and Aemon is possibly out of it since he's mumbling about Targaryens, saying, "…though Rhaegar would be more of a songdragon…" So I don't know what to make of any of this.

Sam's eyes light up the way they do when he's about to share his wealth of knowledge. "I think he means Lucy Flowers," he says in a bright, reassuring voice, though he has no idea what has spooked me. Sure enough, Aemon makes a soft "ah" sound like he's remembering. "She was a traveling singer from back in the days of my great-grandparents. Flowers is the name given to bastards in the Reach. Grandmother Crane said she used to sing the most at Brightwater Keep and Honeyholt." To Aemon, he adds as if struck by epiphany, "You must have heard her when you were at the Citadel!"

"She wasn't a bastard, Samwell. She just quite liked the name," Aemon says dreamily. "She sang in the North for well over a year. When I first met her, she was still called Lucy Snow. And then she tried Lucy Rivers, Lucy Stone, Lucy Storm, Lucy Flowers…" He gives a merry laugh. "She changed her name… like a Braavosi changes faces…"

I turn to Sam, concerned. "Is he delirious again?"

"Oh, no. That part is true," Sam says nonchalantly. "There are people in Braavos who are known as the Faceless Men."

All right. So Aemon is fully coherent. His mind is intact, while my own is racing. There are a thousand thoughts in my head and not one of them is making any sense. Finally, I ask, "How long ago was this?"

Sam wrinkles his forehead, giving it some thought. "Seventy, eighty years ago?" he guesses.

Just like that, the bubble of tension building up in my chest starts to deflate.

"Huh," I say softly.

"What is it?" Gilly asks.

I shake my head. "Nothing, I…" I pause to laugh at myself, "I just thought I'd solved a sixty-six-year-old mystery."

It's a weird feeling, like a final straw. Snow's poison being drawn out of me slowly. There were no portals back then, the timing didn't match up, and still I was about ready to believe it. Another test I failed as soon as I heard the name Snow. It's a common bastard name in the North – though this Lucy is not a bastard – and maybe Lucy is a common girl's name here too. But there's something about it that doesn't feel quite right.

And yet, it doesn't matter. I will walk out of this room. I will ride to Hardhome. I will keep singing Lucy Gray's songs.

But I will let the truth die with Aemon Targaryen.

I look at him in relief, my shoulders sagging as a smile stretches across my lips. He's singing softly to himself, happy, as if reveling in a memory.

"I loved a maid as bright as spring, with blossoms in her hair…"

"Isn't it 'as green as spring' and 'sunrise in her hair'?" Sam asks.

"Who knows, Tarly… I've heard it sung many ways, and 'blossoms' suits me best." Aemon turns his head in my direction. "But perhaps…? One last song from Katniss before she goes?"

"I have time for a song," I agree. "What do you want to hear? 'Rose of Gold' again?"

Aemon waves a hand dismissively. "Your rendition is lovely, my dear," he says. "But this time, I think a song from your country would do."

I falter. The gesture is kind, but piles on the pressure. What kind of song do you sing when you're saying farewell to a hundred-year-old man with blood of the dragon? I don't know if they have one for that in Panem…

Then it comes to me. A perfect fit, or at least the first thing I can think of. A sendoff to Aemon and to Lucy Gray and to me. And if it can charm snakes, maybe it can charm a dragon.

So I settle more comfortably in my seat. With one hand, I activate my camera. The other hand reaches out to grasp his. Then I clear my throat, take in a cleansing breath, and I sing him one of my Lucy's songs. The one she sang in the arena.

"La, la, la, la
La, la, la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la, la

You're headed for heaven,
The sweet old hereafter,
And I've got one foot in the door.
But before I can fly up,
I've loose ends to tie up,
Right here in the old therebefore.

And I'll be along
When I've finished my song,
When I've shut down the band,
When I've played out my hand,
When I've paid all my debts,
When I have no regrets,
Right here in
The old therebefore,
When nothing
Is left anymore.

And I'll catch you up
When I've emptied my cup,
When I've worn out my friends,
When I've burned out both ends,
When I've cried all my tears,
When I've conquered my fears,
Right here in
The old therebefore,
When nothing
Is left anymore.

And I'll bring the news
When I've danced off my shoes,
When my body's closed down,
When my boat's run aground,
When I've tallied the score,
And I'm flat on the floor,
Right here in
The old therebefore,
When nothing
Is left anymore.

When I'm pure like a dove,
When I've learned how to love,
Right here in
The old therebefore,
When nothing
Is left anymore."

I finish the song softly, letting the final note hang in the air before evaporating like smoke and drifting out the window. Then I glance down at Aemon, and I find tears in his pale eyes. He squeezes my hand as I study them, wondering what color they must've been before blindness formed its white veil. After a moment, I squeeze back.

There's a part of me that doesn't want to release, doesn't want to leave if Sam's right and he doesn't have a week. Like I should be here when his fire goes out. But the other part of me says Hardhome doesn't have a week either. So when his grip loosens, I slide my hand free and stand up, starting to walk towards the door.

"I think Egg would have liked that song," he whispers, making me stop.

Gilly, holding a now-sleeping Little Sam, looks up with the same confusion that must be on my face. Sam clarifies, "His little brother, Aegon. He became king."

Aegon. That's right. Shireen spoke of him in her Targaryen teachings. I smile, trying to imagine Aemon as an older brother. That should have made him king first, but he joined the Night's Watch to make sure the crown passed to Aegon. He must've really cared for his brother to give up everything for him. He loved Egg, just as I had loved Prim.

But Shireen also told me about the tragedy at Summerhall. In the end, neither of us could protect them as they burned. And here we are, up north in the cold, outliving them.

"Goodbye, Maester Aemon," I say.

He beams in the direction of my voice. "Goodbye, Katniss Everdeen," he says warmly. "Keep singing your songs."

Gilly is going to stay in the maester's quarters with Aemon, so we get in a good long hug outside his room as Sam holds the baby for her, then I give Little Sam some love too before heading outside. Sam was going to walk me out to the courtyard, but I need to get my things first, so he offers to fetch my horse from the stables. I thank him, promising to meet him out there in a few minutes.

Returning to my room, I make sure my arrows are accounted for and arranged by color, slide the sheath and pack onto my shoulders, and secure my dragonglass dagger in my belt. Then I adjust my arm bands and black mockingjay pin before grabbing my bow and stepping out of my room.

Out in the courtyard, the brothers who are going with are currently saddling their horses. Others are either going about their day as usual, like the smith at his anvil, or standing by and looking on in disapproval, like Yarwyck and Bowen Marsh. I hear Thorne before I see him, laying into Jon about the mission for what I'm sure is far from the first time. Sam, who has already brought my horse, is standing in the background patiently waiting for Thorne to finish berating him so he can say goodbye.

"—reckless, foolhardy, and an insult to all the brothers who have died fighting the wildlings," Thorne's saying, back turned to me as I round a corner and descend the first flight of stairs.

Jon is respectful, but barely fazed. "As always, thank you for your honesty," he replies, glancing past Thorne and over his shoulder as he starts to turn away.

Then he stops, does a double take. His eyebrows shoot up considerably as he catches sight of me.

I try not to feel embarrassed descending the second staircase. It's harder when Thorne turns to see what Jon's looking at, and he's briefly taken aback before his expression turns into a squint and a scowl. Some of the other Night's Watch men are staring too. Maybe the Mockingjay uniform is too much. But it's warm, especially coupled with my shadowskin cloak, and as black as their own, so I thought it would blend in. I guess I was wrong about that.

Looking past them, I see a man I recognize standing near the horses with Edd. He stands out like a sore thumb, not just because he's not wearing black, but because he's built like an ox and he has a messy mane of orange hair, freckled with snowflakes. But his towering form is bent slightly and his head is lowered like he's staring down at his feet. At first I think he's just being humble, but then I see Buttercup prowling around his legs.

I greet Jon, giving him a nod and quick half-smile, and excuse myself as I move around Thorne. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Olly watching me with a small frown. I pay it no mind and stride across the courtyard to join the others.

"I like this cat," the man's saying to Edd with a chuckle. He picks him up, unbothered by his feeble growl. "Ginger. Kissed by fire."

"He's had his brushes with it," I confirm, walking over to my horse. Throwing Sam a smile in thanks, I slide my pack off my shoulder and secure it to the saddle. "Though, for the record, actually being kissed by fire? Not as fun as it sounds."

As I'm putting everything into place, I feel his eyes on me. "No?" he asks promptingly, like he doesn't believe me.

I look over my shoulder at him as he puts Buttercup back down. "It uses its tongue."

He gives a pronounced lift of his eyebrows. "Sounds like fun to me."

Despite myself, I laugh, until Edd sends me a subtle look – a reminder that, shackles or not, this is a former wildling prisoner – so I bite my lip to stifle it. But then Jon comes up from behind me and joins us. "Katniss, this is Tormund Giantsbane. He's the new leader of the free folk I told you about." He turns to me, pauses, looks me up and down before continuing. "Tormund, this is… this is Katniss Everdeen."

I shift the shadowskin cloak awkwardly, covering up more. I knew the Mockingjay suit was too much.

"Ah," Tormund says knowingly. "The singing crow."

"Crow…?" I ask, looking to Jon for help.

"It's what the free folk call the men of the Night's Watch," he explains.

"Oh," I say, glancing at the black fringe on his cloak. I'm guessing it's because it looks like feathers. "Well, I'm neither of those things. More of a mockingjay, really."

"What's a mockingjay?" Tormund asks.

Jon answers for me. "A bird from her country."

"And they sing a whole lot better than crows," I add, which makes Jon chuckle.

It's time to go. Jon says goodbye to Sam first, who wishes him safe travels and hands him a clinking bag. In the meantime, I find Ghost and say farewell, since he's clearly unhappy that we're not going beyond the Wall together this morning. On top of that, I'm leaving with Jon through a different gate and we're not taking him with us. Talk about betrayal.

I show him some affection to make up for it, until I locate Buttercup watching us from nearby. Feeling inexplicably sentimental, I go to him and scoop him up while I wait. Besides the trip to Districts 3 and 4 back in July, and to the cave, this is the first time since our reunion in Twelve that we won't be in the same vicinity as each other for a while.

I don't want to look like the crazy person talking to a cat, but out of the corner of my mouth, I mutter to him, "You be nice to Sam and Gilly while I'm gone." The hell with it. I hold him up and look him in the eye. "Don't beat up Ghost. I need him to protect them."

He looks past me at the horses, eyes darting, clearly paying me no attention. Maybe he's more interested in his fellow ginger.

Whatever. I put him back down and go to Sam for my turn at a goodbye. "Safe travels, Katniss," he says.

"Thanks, Sam," I say. "Don't get into too much trouble while we're gone."

A smile crosses his face. "I can't make any promises," he says with a nervous chuckle.

I laugh too. "Me neither," I say, and give him a hug.

Returning to our horses, Jon offers me his hand and helps me onto mine. Which is probably unnecessary at this point, since I've been riding every day for almost two weeks, but every day that he meets me out there, he's done it anyway. Having grown up in a noble house, he must consider it rude not to. It certainly earns him a curious look from Tormund, though.

Gripping the reins, I take one last sweeping glance of Castle Black. The brothers on the horses behind me. The stone castles I've grown used to. The cage-like elevator that took me to the top of the Wall that first night. The lingering stares of the men we're leaving behind. And Thorne, still glaring beside the stairs.

Then I turn my gaze ahead and nod to Jon. Urging my horse forward, I follow him and Tormund to the west gate, and ride through its open doors for the first time.

A/N: Thanks for all new faves/follows/(re)views! I know what I said last chapter, and in my defense, this one is shorter. Also, one arc ends (Lucy Gray), another begins (Hardhome). Happy Almost New Year!

ZainR, no worries about Rose of Gold! It's only mentioned, and I made up the story for the ballad. You're 100% right though, it does sound like Sleeping Beauty!