In the Twelfth Year of the Reign of King Robert
It was truly amazing, Jocelyn reflected, how much could change in such a short distance. She suspected that, were there no other buildings in the way, a good archer could hit the outer wall of Winterfell from where she stood now.
Winterfell. Despite the upturned noses of the southron visitors Lady Stark sometimes entertained, Jocelyn had come to realize that the castle that shaped her childhood was, in fact, extraordinarily rich. She still flushed with embarrassment when she recalled how, early in her time with the preosthad, one of the older acolytes had taken her aside to explain that she needed to start cleaning out her own night soil when they camped for any length of time. Jocelyn had asked, in all sincerity, why the servants weren't doing that. The older acolyte had laughed long and hard, before explaining the difference between Lords and the common folk.
And the Starks weren't just any Lords — their servants were actually the children of Lords themselves, with their own servants! It had taken several trips into Wintertown before Jocelyn realized that the lowest class of people the children of Lord Stark ever interacted with were still so far above the farmers and laborers the castle relied upon as to barely be visible.
Wintefell might not have the gold and jewels of King's Landing, but it had food, as much food as the nobles wanted, all winter. It had herds of horses and sheep and cattle, leatherworkers and blacksmiths, clothiers and craftsmen and glassblowers. Wealth wasn't just money, it was people, armies of people. Father would make some decision and inform his High Steward, Lord Poole. Lord Poole would inform his stewards, and they would inform the appropriate steadholders, who would order servants to make purchases and order other servants to move supplies from one storeroom to another and order still more servants to actually do the work. Hundreds of people moved at the simplest of Father's commands!
Not like here. Here there was simply a woman and her son, with just enough food for today and the hope that someone would be kind enough to spare a bit more tomorrow. The boy, laying on the pallet next to Jocelyn, kept coughing, a wet, bubbling cough that sounded far too deep for his thin chest. The pallet itself barely warranted the name: a bit of raised, packed earth with some old straw to serve as a mattress.
She was a bowshot from the wealth of House Stark, and she was watching a child slowly die in a drafty lean-to.
Osha leaned her head towards Jocelyn and spoke softly. "Keep the boy company; I am going to take a walk with the mother."
Jocelyn nodded, and sat on the ground. She had no idea what to say to this boy, with his thin chest and too-large eyes, but she had learned early on when she could ask questions of her superiors and when she was expected to simply obey, and next to a sick bed was certainly a time for the latter.
"Are you a weirwitch?" the small boy asked between coughs. His voice was weak, and barely audible over the noise of the town that the unfinished walls of the lean-to did little to keep out.
"I am training to be one," replied Jocelyn.
"I'd like to be a weirwitch someday," said the boy wistfully. This surprised Jocelyn; most boys she knew dreamed of becoming knights or adventurers, or they were desperate to be treated like adults and spoke with exaggerated wisdom of their father's trade. Then she realized with a start that the boy had no father to follow after, and the other children were unlikely to want to play knights and bandits with one so obviously sickly.
Jocelyn struggled to find something to say. "The great wolf takes any with the heart to sacrifice themselves to her," she said at last.
The boy nodded solemnly. The silence stretched on, uncomfortable, occasionally broken by a loud voice from outside or the boy coughing fluid up from his lungs.
"Would you like to hear a story?" asked Jocelyn out of desperation.
The boy nodded.
"I can tell you the story of the Night Queen," offered Jocelyn.
"I've heard that one," said the boy dismissively.
"Ah, but have you heard the real story?" replied Jocelyn.
The boy shook his head, and looked intrigued, so Jocelyn began.
"Ages and ages ago, there lived a Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, who ruled from his castle built fast against the Great Wall. The Lord was tasked with guarding against the demons and monsters of the Lands of Always Winter, to make sure that they never came south to prey on the lands of men.
"But demons are not the only danger of the North, and the lands granted the Night's Watch suffered terrible misfortune. First a summer hailstorm ruined a year's worth of crops; then a blight stole away all the young sheep; then a wildling host threatened the Great Wall, and the Lord Commander conscripted the men away from the fields, hoping that there would be time to repel the wildling host and plant another harvest before winter came. The host was repelled, but the planting had not even finished before the first snows came.
"The winter was long, and without sheep or the last harvest, the Watch was soon dangerously low on food. Winter storms lashed the land, until even the ravens struggled to get through to let the King know of the Lord Commander's plight. But even had he known, the roads from the Great Wall to the south were all blocked by snow deeper than the height of seven men.
"In that desperate hour, the Night Queen visited the Lord Commander.
"She was a leader of her folk, who lived far beyond the Great Wall during the summer. And she came to the Lord to offer him a deal. 'I will teach your people how to live when the storm howls and the snow piles up over a man's head. I will share game with you and teach you how to find it. I will teach you how to make shelter apart from your stone walls, and how to find the warmth of the wolf that is not quenched in the long night.' For the Night Queen was not only a leader of her people, but a weirwitch, high in the favor of the great wolf.
"'And what do you want in return for these teachings?' asked the Lord Commander.
"'Succor,' replied the Night Queen. 'Safety beyond the Great Wall. My people are weary of fighting the demons of the north, and we wish only for peace. Let us through this Great Wall of yours, allow us to live in peace, and all our knowledge will be yours.'
"The Lord Commander looked favorably upon this offer, and opened the gates to the Night Queen's host. They passed beyond the wall, and showed the Night's Watch how to find game in the deep snow, how to hunt seals and fish in the icy waters, how to make shelter from the very snow itself. And her people lived in peace.
"The Lord Commander looked upon the Night Queen, and saw a woman lovely and wise, and determined to make her his bride, forsaking the vows he had sworn. 'For will it not be better for our cause,' he reasoned, 'to have the help of those who know the lands beyond, and who even now fight the demons of winter?'
"The Night Queen, for her part, saw no reason to refuse the Lord Commander's troth, for southron oaths and kings meant little and less to her. And so the two were married beneath the weirwood, and as winter dragged on the Night Queen grew great with the child who would unite the defenders of the Great Wall and the peoples of the lands beyond.
"When spring came, however, news from the Great Wall spread on newly clear roads, and the Lords of the North were not pleased. They were used to the Night's Watch depending on them, and instead of a chance for peace, they saw only the threat that might arise if the Night's Watch joined with the peoples beyond the Wall, and no longer needed their support. And so they whispered to each other rumors of fell sorcery, of a beautiful Queen seducing the Lord Commander with arts most foul, and they—"
"That's not true!" interrupted the boy, as he pushed himself to sit up. "The Night Queen was an evil witch, she was one of the Others!"
"That is how the story is often told," admitted Jocelyn, "but there are other tellings—"
"Then the other tellings are lies!" insisted the boy.
"The truth of a tale is not in its—"
"Jos!" This time, the interrupting voice came from outside the lean-to, and Jocelyn realized that Osha and the boy's mother had returned from their walk. She quickly stepped outside to greet them.
"Stay here," commanded Osha, before she ducked her head into the small room behind the mother.
Jocelyn, deeply embarrassed, did as she was told, without even trying to listen in on the conversation happening in the small room. She simply stood, awkward, in the dim, narrow space between two buildings where a scattering of people with nowhere else to go had erected some flimsy shelters. A third of an hour passed before Osha came outside again.
The woman had not aged at all since Jocelyn had first met her beside the bonfire in the deep woods, and named her raven. Her hair was still black throughout, her eyes still two bottomless wells. If she looked smaller now than in Jocelyn's memories, it was only because even after just ten and two name days Jocelyn herself was among the tallest of the women in the preosthad of the Wolfwood.
"I asked you to keep him company, not upset him," said Osha without preamble.
"I just told him a story!" protested Jocelyn.
"You told him he was wrong," replied Osha, "and that person who told him of the Night Queen before, likely his mother on some long winter night, was either lying to him or mistaken."
Jocelyn hadn't thought of that. She mulled it over as she followed behind Osha, boots squelching through the deep mud of the alley. After two years of winter and a cold spring, summer had finally arrived, though that hadn't kept a brief snow from blowing in a sennight ago. The last of it was melted now, but it left Wintertown feeling damp and cool, even in the day's bright sunlight.
Jocelyn supposed she could have been more tactful. Still. "The wolf sees clearly. Hold to the truth, because lies die in winter."
Osha snorted. "That sounds like Veran. So tell me, child, does that boy back there know the truth now?"
"I told him the truth!"
"Does he know the truth now?" repeated Osha. "Does his mother know this truth of yours? Is there a single person today who believes that the Night Queen was a maligned hero who did not believe so yesterday?"
They walked together off of the muddy alley onto the cobbles of the street. Jocelyn took a moment to scrap the mud from her boots. She walked abreast with Osha now that there was space to do so.
"I guess not."
"There is a time for everything," said Osha as they passed narrow, tall houses and small shops, all squeezed together into one long row. "And just because something is true does not mean it needs to be said right now . What good is it to scream the truth, if by screaming you ensure none believe you?"
They passed a merchant who called out to them, hawking bowls of rough bread filled with fried onions and mushrooms and venison. It was a common meal in Wintertown. When he realized they were weirwitches, he insisted they each take a bowl free of charge. The preosthad provided fresh meat for many in town during winter, and so the food merchants tended to be generous.
Jocelyn ate in silence as they continued down the street. The buildings of Wintertown were mostly wood, with dark beams framing whitewashed plaster. The roofs were slate and steep, to ensure the snow did not pile up heavier than the roof could support. And they had a feature that southron visitors never failed to laugh at: doors on the second and third floors that opened out to empty air and a long drop.
At least, in summer. In the winter, the snow would pile higher and higher in the streets, and eventually people would stop digging down to the lower doors and start making snow ramps up to higher ones. The city guard would shovel gravel on top of the packed snow, and a new street would form, one level above the ground. The process would repeat, until Wintertown looked like it was made up entirely of squat low houses, which tunneled deep into the surface.
Now that it was summer, though, the buildings stood tall, and the street felt like a canyon, and a full one at that, as the residents streamed towards the godswood for the start of the guardian festival.
"Will the boy recover?" asked Jocelyn, as she finished the last of her bowl.
Osha gave her a penetrating look. "I have given his mother herb and counsel. If the boy does not improve by the feast of hunters, we will give him mercy."
Jocelyn bowed her head. One of the most challenging duties for a weirwitch was determining when healing the body was possible, and when the best thing for the community was for the sick to join the gods.
"The herd is stronger when the wolf takes the sick," said Jocelyn. Still, she hoped that in the summer air the boy would get better.
Osha bowed her head.
"I'm sorry," said Jocelyn. "I should have thought through what I was saying to him."
Osha put an arm around Jocelyn's shoulders. "You should have. But you are young, and will make mistakes. As long as you are willing to learn from them, you need not be sorry."
Jocelyn leaned into the older woman, still troubled but willing to accept comfort.
"It seems a waste," she said after a moment. "I know some are born sickly and there is nothing to be done, but that boy might have been healthy had he simply been fed enough. And we had sufficient food this winter."
Osha sighed. "Yes. Your Father is a good man, and cares for his people. Yet with thousands to watch over sooner or later some are overlooked. The boy's father came here to practice a trade, but died before he could establish himself. His mother was from White Harbor and had no money to travel back there in winter. She has pride, and believed they could get by without charity if they could just make it to summer."
"And now it's too late." The thought was painful; Jocelyn wanted to push it away.
"It may be. But it may not be. Only the gods know if the boy will live in another moon, but that is true for all of us. But come now, the festival will have already started if we don't hurry. And today is a time to be thankful for the gifts we do have."
They walked more quickly, until at last the street opened up. From one step to the next they passed from tall buildings to a wooded clearing. There were twelve giant weirwood trees scattered about Wintertown. Each was surrounded by a small woods, carefully tended. It was known that if buildings were raised too close to a weirwood tree, it would sicken and die. And that death, even if not done on purpose, would bring a terrible curse on the one responsible.
The woods also gave plenty of open space for people to gather on festival days.
As they moved through the trees, Jocelyn could hear the strong, clear voice of Ossian, already part way through her declamation of Guardians of the Forest . Jocelyn grimaced; she'd meant to be here in time to hear it from the beginning. Ossian would understand, though: her duties as an acolyte came first. As they crested a low rise, Jocelyn could see her through the trees, seated, playing her gusle as she sang. She was surrounded by the townsfolk, who crowded around and even climbed trees to get a better spot, though never the weirwood tree itself. Jocelyn smiled; Ossian was perhaps a year or two older than her, and in everyday speech her voice was soft, as if she were afraid to make too much noise. But poems brought out an unexpected strength in her, and her voice carried clear and strong throughout the woods, the townsfolk entranced by the words.
And steadfast Arya stood her guard, her staff bright hewn above her head
The sight of her filled bellies raw with hunger for the long-fled game
But not all looked, and some instead heard whispers, fatal as a blade
Give up your post, and you shall have, full riches 'yond imagining.
It was an old poem, one of a number that described the faithfulness of steadfast Arya. Of course, steadfast Arya always died at the end of the poems, so they couldn't all be exactly true. Jocelyn liked Guardians of the Forest , though. It spoke of how the First Men stopped moving around with the herds each season, and instead settled into towns.
The Andals caused it, of course. They were determined to cut down every weirwood tree in Westeros, heedless that each stroke severed their connection with the forests around them. The First Men defended the trees, as was right and proper, but the Andals were clever. They knew the First Men traveled with the seasons, and so they simply waited until the defenders of each grove had to move on to find game, and then they pounced with their axes.
Steadfast Arya led her people to defend one grove of weirwood trees, and they defended it even as the Andals pressed them hard, even as the herds moved on, and game ran out, and steadfast Arya's people slowly starved.
The poem always started the same, and always ended the same, but in the middle the poet was free to declaim as the gods guided.
And so Ossian sang verse after verse of the story. How steadfast Arya tricked one group of Andals into running away; how she set traps that ensnared and killed another group; how she challenged the leader of another group to single combat and then slew him with a knife thrown into his eye before he could even raise his shield; how she brewed poison to coat the blades of her skutilsveinr so that their enemies would perish.
The townsfolk loved the story of steadfast Arya, and as Ossian sang it, her voice never faltering as the minutes stretched into hours, the assembled crowd laughed, and danced, and some even sang along when a familiar line cropped up.
And yet there was a thread of sadness in the song, as each stand merely delayed the inevitable. The Andals were simply too many, and each victory took its toll.
Steadfast Arya defended the trees until her people were cut down by blade or hunger, one by one, and at last she herself fell among the roots of the weirwood tree. The gods were so moved by her sacrifice that they agreed to a new pact with the First Men: if they would agree to defend the weirwood trees, the gods would show them how to listen to the woods and manage the patterns of herds and game, and so the people could stay in one place and build homes, and yet still never go hungry again. Jocelyn could see people around her openly weeping as steadfast Arya laid down her life for honor. She felt tears gather in her own eyes. She could feel something, a bittersweet longing, that seemed to fill the space and hold them all together, neighbors and strangers alike all kin in this moment.
Finally the last verses came, the gods rewarding steadfast Arya with a place among them, where she could watch her people share the gods gifts for the rest of time.
The townsfolk cheered, tears still streaming, and the dancing broke out anew. Ossian gratefully allowed several fiddlers to take up playing, and soon the wood was full of dancing.
"That was amazing!" gushed Jocelyn as she pulled Ossian into a hug. Several other acolytes had joined them and were showering their own praises, crowded around her under the giant weirwood tree.
"Truly?" said the other girl. If any of the ladies in Father's court spoke so, Jocelyn would assume they were simply playing coy to bring forth further complements. But she knew her friend had outrageously little faith in her own abilities, so she answered the girl warmly.
"Yes, truly! Did you see the people weeping at steadfast Arya's death? Master Fanlin butchers the piglets he raises himself each year without so much as a grimace, and even he was bawling into his hands before the end."
"He was?"
"Could you not hear him? I swear there must be prisoners in the Winterfell dungeons who are at this very moment wondering who was making all that racket out here."
The other acolytes laughed, and even Ossian seemed to smile a bit. "You know I can only remember everything if I'm half in a trance."
This was true enough; Veran called it sinking into the poem. The servants of the gods had an enormous amount they had to memorize. Epic poems for each festival, as well as the many, many rituals that had to be recited verbatim. Jocelyn wasn't sure which was worse: the rituals had to be memorized exactly, not a word out of place. The poems allowed each poet to improvise, as long as she remembered the form, but then that required her to think on her feet. Jocelyn could do it if she ate enough mushroom beforehand, but she was expected at the castle this evening and it wouldn't do to show up obviously addled.
Ossian, for all her shyness, was simply a natural performer.
Jocelyn gave her another quick hug. "You did great. I wish I could send you in my place!" Ossian visibly paled at this. "I'm joking, Ossian! The fools in the castle wouldn't appreciate you anyway."
"Jocelyn," warned Osha. They'd spoken before about the need for Jocelyn to guard her tongue when speaking about the nobility — all the more so because she wasn't the one who would suffer if her words were repeated to the wrong ears.
"Alright, alright, I'm going!" Jocelyn gave Ossian a quick kiss on the cheek and then set about pushing through the crowd, which had already started feasting, to get out of the woods and on to her next obligation.
Osha stayed in town, and left Veran to escort Jocelyn up to the castle for what she considered to be the silliest part of her visits home. Because since Jocelyn obviously couldn't be officially received looking like a peasant , she first entered Winterfell through one of the servants' doors. There she was handed off to a small army of maids, who bathed and scrubbed and perfumed her before handing her off to a different set of maids who dressed her and did her hair.
Then she left the castle through the servants' door again, all so that she could walk around to the wolf gate and officially enter as befitted the daughter of the Lord of Winter, bastard though she may be.
Jocelyn had lost count of how many times she had gone through this rigmarole in the past six years, but it never felt any less strange. It was as if she were wearing a costume of herself. The dress she wore was still of hide, but smoother and more supple than anything she had in the woods. She couldn't imagine how many elk skins the leatherworkers must have gone through to find ones that so perfectly fit together without blemish. The totems in her hair were technically correct, but smaller than usual and cunningly worked into bands that could have adorned the hair of any of the castle ladies without comment.
It felt like a lie.
The smile Robb gave her when the gate opened, though, was genuine enough.
"Jos! Are you alright? We heard you were in the woods when that last snow came through."
Jocelyn laughed as Arya darted out from behind her brother and practically climbed up Jocelyn's legs to wrap herself around her older sister.
"I spent half the winter traveling the forest, and you thought a summer dusting would do me in?"
"I suppose it was silly to worry. Still, in the winter you were prepared. I heard it's different when you're caught by surprise."
Jocelyn frowned. "That sounds like something Lady Stark would say. You should know we never go into the woods without being prepared for snow, no matter what season it is. And," here Jocelyn lowered her voice, "in any case, there are those among us who can breathe in the wind and taste the weather it will bring."
Arya's eyes widened. "Truly?" she gasped, and Jocelyn smiled down at her and nodded.
Robb looked troubled. "It wasn't Mother. You always think it's her."
"She always thinks it's me!" shot back Jocelyn.
"It was Theon who said it!" cried Arya, before her two older siblings could say any more. "And, he said that a group of women shouldn't be traveling alone in any weather, and that he could go with you to keep everyone warm. Though I don't know why he thinks one more person would make you any warmer." Arya looked puzzled at this last mystery, while Robb had blushed.
"That wasn't for your ears—" he began.
"Well you can tell Theon," Jocelyn interrupted, "that he is welcome to travel with us any time he likes. Osha knows an ancient ritual to make the herds more fertile, but it requires some chopped up — let's call them ingredients. And I think Theon's would do nicely…" Jocelyn gave an exaggerated waggle of her eyebrows.
"Theon's what?" asked Arya. Robb's face contorted to a look of utter terror, and Jocelyn could only laugh as the group made their way through the castle yard, and under the high arching gate that led into the godswood.
The godswood in Winterfell was a much more solemn place than the small woods in Wintertown had been. There was no music, yet, and certainly no dancing. Courtiers mingled under the trees, careful not to be too loud or boisterous. If there was one thing people knew about Lord Stark, it was that he brooked no disrespect towards the gods.
Jocelyn, Robb, and Arya slowed down as well, and moved sedately but purposefully to the weirwood tree. There Jocelyn curtsied and paid her respects to the Lord and Lady of the castle.
"Father, Lady Stark," she murmured. Father was wearing his Lord's face, because of the occasion, but underneath that he seemed pleased to see her. Lady Stark's expression was blank, which Jocelyn thought was an improvement over the usual look she garnered. Her belly had grown round yet again, and she had dressed to make that clear to all. In spite of Jocelyn's own feelings about Lady Stark, she was happy for her family, that the gods had given Father such a clear sign of their blessing on his union. She could see Bran as well, being minded by his nursemaids in a hollow that gave some bit of privacy from the rest of the festival.
"We would be honored if you would play for us this night," said Father, once the greetings were done. He pitched his voice so that the courtiers around them could hear, and gestured to a servant nearby, who was carefully carrying a gusle and now held it out to Jocelyn.
Jocelyn curtsied again. "The honor would be mine, Father." She straightened and accepted the instrument.
This was more costume, Jocelyn thought — Father asking her, and her accepting, as if this had just occurred to him and was not something that had been arranged for months now as Jocelyn spent hours practicing.
She's tried to tell them that any of the full weirwitches would be a better singer than her, or that Ossian was the best of the acolytes.
It had been Widow Dustin, who arranged the festival as one of the patrons of the Winterfell preosthad, who had taken her aside to explain the situation.
"The preosthad doesn't want to showcase the best voice among the weirwitches, we want to remind Winterfell that their Lord's daughter is one of us." Jocelyn had started to protest, but Widow Dustin kept going. "And your Lord Father wants to remind everyone of the same." Her face had softened, then. "He's proud of you, dear. Let him show you off."
Jocelyn could hardly say no to that, and so here she was, playing for half the nobility of the North. Sansa, she knew, would happily murder someone for such an opportunity, though of course she played the harp, and Lady Stark and her pet Septa wouldn't know how to teach her the festival songs even if they would have allowed it.
Jocelyn pulled her bow across the gusle, and started in to Guardians of the Forest .
There were no improvised verses here: while the common folk could simply enjoy the poem, Lords were a prickly lot who remembered everything. It wouldn't do for Jocelyn to accidentally ascribe some battle tactic to the Andals that House Hornwood had proudly used four hundred years ago. They might assume the comparison was deliberate. So Jocelyn had practiced the verses for Veran, who had consulted with several other goði, and even Widow Dustin, before agreeing on the words. Even the verse of Arya challenging the Andals to single combat had to be vetted. As Jocelyn sang it now, steadfast Arya appointed one of her male skutilsveinr to fight for her, and he was so inspired by her faith in him that he slew a champion encased in steel in straight combat.
Jocelyn sang carefully, and there was no swell of emotion here like she had felt in the Wintertown woods.
But one benefit of the castle festival was that it was much shorter; a scant half hour of song was all the courtiers had an appetite for. Steadfast Arya died, the First Men were saved, and Jocelyn tried not to let the relief show as she gave her gusle back to the appropriate servant. There was polite clapping around the godswood, but Father at least seemed to beam with real pride.
"That song was about me!" cried Arya as she demanded Jocelyn pick her up again.
"I think you were named after the song, rather than the other way around," added Robb.
"Father, isn't the song about me?"
"My mother's mother was named Arya. A Flint of the Mountains. It's a common enough name there."
"Was she named after Steadfast Arya?" asked Arya. Before Father had a chance to explain it, however, it was time for the next part of the evening.
A stag had jumped into the clearing next to them, surprising a small number of the courtiers. Primarily Lady Stark's retinue; anyone who spoke the old tongue would have heard the servants gossiping about the event by now.
The stag cantered up to the group, and as it passed Veran reached with a dagger and smoothly slit its throat.
The stag's momentum carried it another step before it crashed into the thick earth, blood splattering across the ground. Jocelyn was tempted to look at the patterns — Osha had been showing her how to see glimpses of the future in such things — but she knew that wasn't the point of tonight. Tonight was a sacrifice, a prayer for fortune and bountiful game. And, Osha had warned her, the gods did not like it when their servants were greedy and tried to eke multiple gifts from the same sacrifice.
Veran pulled the entrails from a long slice through the stag's belly, and handed the coils to the other goði. They began stringing the entrails through the branches of the weirwood.
Once they were done, the stag was carved up and given to the flames as Veran beseeched the gods. The skin as he pled for shelter; the eyes for wisdom; the meat for food; the manhood for healthy children.
The prayers took quite some time, and while they were going on, servants passed around berry cakes and hemp seeds, and sweetened mallow treats for the children. There was no meat served at this meal, to emphasize the sacrifice of the large stag.
"Must they put such horrid things in that beautiful tree?" Sansa had joined them, and had turned the conversation to the common tongue she preferred.
"The tree is the gods', not ours to make up as we see fit," replied Father. "Besides, the crows will have cleared this all clean before long." Jocelyn knew from Robb that Sansa did truly love the godswood, though she saw it as a place for picnics and leisure strolls, not worship.
"You sang very beautifully," Sansa said, turning to Jocelyn.
"My daughter, she speaks and says a true thing," said a voice behind her, and Jocelyn almost jumped from surprise.
"Lady Stark! You honor me." Jocelyn swept into a deep curtsy. She didn't know which was more shocking, that Lady Stark complimented her or that she actually made a broken attempt to do so in the old tongue.
"Honor deserved," said Lady Stark, before offering a small, somewhat forced, smile, and moving on to another group of ladies.
Robb was grinning at Jocelyn as if he had been proven right about something.
"How did they get the stag to just walk up to that goði?" asked Arya.
"Well," replied Jocelyn, "that's why some people were so surprised. Usually the animal has to be dragged in."
"That's what they did last spring," Robb added.
"But," continued Jocelyn, lowering her voice and leaning down to speak in Arya's ear, "the gifts of the gods are returning to us. There are now several goði who can sing to the animals, and make them listen."
Arya's eyes somehow became even wider. "Do you mean," she whispered, "wargs?"
"Skinchangers," corrected Jocelyn. "And do you know what else?" She lowered her voice even further. "My mentor says I'm going to be one."
Arya's look of awe was mirrored on Robb's face, with, Jocelyn thought, just the smallest amount of fear.
Author Note: I've made Wintertown bigger here than what's described in canon, but honestly it really should be. It's clear that Lords and their retinues regularly visit Winterfell, so there should be a collection of services and merchants catering to that: jewelers, armorers, dressmakers, toymakers, etc, plus all the usual services for farming communities, plus all the people involved in moving food into Winterfell and trade goods out... it's a medieval town, in other words, not a large city, but not just a few buildings clustered around the castle gates. I'm envisioning something like The Shambles in York, so you can google that if you want a visual.
The hot springs that Winterfell is built on flow out of the castle and into the Little Knife, which is a tributary of the White Knife. Wintertown stretches from the castle walls to the Little Knife (it's about a thousand yards from the castle walls to the river), where there are a series of docks for river barges. Most of the trade in and out of Winterfell is done by barge, down the White Knife to White Harbor and the sea or upstream to Long Lake and the interior. In the real world, shipping bulk goods by road was basically not a thing before the development of railroads.
There are lots of feasts and festival days in Winterfell! When you have a mostly-illiterate agrarian society, a regular schedule of feasts and holy days gives everyone a sense of time and keeps the necessary farming activities on track. And hey, who doesn't love a feast?
Let me know what you think!