In the Sixteenth Year of the Reign of King Robert
Jocelyn had come and gone from Winterfell countless times, but this time she entered as a stranger.
Formally, at least. For the first time, Jocelyn was returning to the castle she still considered her home not as a daughter visiting her father, but as a member of a delegation of the preosthad seeking an audience with the Chosen of the Wolf.
She stood beneath the massive Wolf Gate on the outer walls and tried not to fidget with the hides wrapped around her. At some point in the past few years–and she couldn't pinpoint a precise moment—Jocelyn had passed some barrier, intangible but no less real for that, into womanhood. Now her outfits and demeanor had to be appropriate for a lady of the Winter Court, while also keeping to the expectations that same court had for an acolyte of the gods. Jocelyn privately wondered if the castle leatherworkers and clothiers did anything between her visits other than plan her outfits for the next visit.
A horn blew from the wall, high above them, and with a clanking of chains the outer gate slowly swung open. The drawbridge lowered across the outer ditch, and armored figures, tiny against the enormity of the castle walls, made their way across.
The greeting was different, as well. No tumble of siblings throwing themselves into hugs this time; now Robb stood before her, inclining his head slightly. "Your sacredness," he said to her. He had passed his own barriers, Jocelyn noted, and now wore what could charitably be described as a beard.
"My Lord," she responded, dropping into the half-curtsy appropriate for a sibling of higher station.
The slightest smile curled on Robb's lip, as if they were playing a game they were both keeping from the adults around them.
No more than that, though, before he schooled his face into stillness, and gestured to his companions. Robb was flanked by the Lords Poole, Cassel, and Cerwyn, along with Widow Dustin and a handful of steadholders. Beside Jocelyn was Veran (who Jocelyn only occasionally remembered was Elder Veran of the Winterfell preosthad–he too was entering his own home as a stranger), along with Elders Rork, Quane, and Willa. Jocelyn had hoped that Osha and Ramsay could be with her, for support, and for a time she thought they would be. But then somebody realized that that would have brought their party up to seven, and the servants of the gods had a visceral hatred of the number so integral to the Faith. So Osha and Ramsay were serving in Wintertown, and the delegation to the castle comprised just Jocelyn and the four elders of Winterfell.
And, of course, the large bear that accompanied Jocelyn.
Robb made the appropriate courtesies—though not to the bear—and the group entered through the Wolf Gate. The crossed the narrow, deep canyon that was formed by the moat between the inner and outer walls, and emerged into the morning sunlight beyond.
The feeling of strangeness intensified as they made their way across the castle yard. Widow Dustin directed the group to a large receiving hall in the main keep to refresh themselves—though with the heat Jocelyn would have much rather stayed outside. Robb and the other Lords took their leave. People Jocelyn had known her whole life–Jeyne Poole, Alys Karstark, Cley Cerwyn–addressed her formally as they brought food and drink.
Jocelyn ran her hand through Elina's thick fur. "It's going to be okay, girl," she whispered. Elina gave her a look that suggested she was being foolish. The bear was really far too smart. Osha had warned her that the connection worked both ways. As Jocelyn shared skin with Elina, she left an imprint. Jocelyn's human ways of thinking created a kind of track, like a herd running through the forest, so that the bear's own mind followed the trails Jocelyn blazed for it.
It was the reason that Elina waited until the servants' backs were turned before she snatched a lemon cake off of a tray and swallowed it whole. Jocelyn glared at her, but she was sure that the bear had picked up on the atmosphere around her and knew that Jocelyn did not dare make a scene.
Wretched beast, thought Jocelyn. She normally left her in the forest on trips to the castle, and both of them were happier for it. For this trip, though, the elders had specifically requested Elina accompany her. They wanted it made clear to the Lords of the North that the gods had indeed returned their gifts to their servants.
They waited for their audience as morning slipped into afternoon, and additional servants came to provide a luncheon. The preosthad had requested the audience more than a moon's turn ago, but even that was, apparently, an abominably short amount of time to arrange such a thing. Ravens had to be sent to all corners of the North, courtiers conferring with their Lords to discuss each House's position. The Night's Watch was sending their own delegation, which needed time to arrive. Only the Manderlys and their bannermen were absent, wishing to neither acknowledge the gods nor give offense for failing to do so.
Most of the responsibility for organizing the audience had fallen on Widow Dustin, as the patron of the Winterfell preosthad and thus the liaison between woods and court. Jocelyn had been impressed by the older woman's composure over the past moons. She carried herself in public as if nothing was amiss, and only someone watching her closely, as Jocelyn was, would have noticed the way she took a deep breath, as if to fortify herself, each time Lord Poole approached with yet another consideration.
"Acolyte," Veran said quietly, pulling her out of her reverie as they stood in the receiving hall, "you know how to find stillness."
Jocelyn flushed, embarrassed at the need for a reminder. Waiting in stillness, knowing herself, was the very first lesson acolytes learned, and yet here Jocelyn was, allowing herself to get more and more anxious.
Jocelyn simply nodded to Veran, and took a deep breath to center herself. "It's going to be okay," she whispered to herself.
Two hours later, they gathered beneath the weirwood tree, where petitions from the gods were heard.
"Chosen of the Wolf," Veran began, in what Jocelyn thought was a rather pompous voice, "we come before you to ask a great favor of you."
"Speak your request, Most Sacred," replied Father, in an equally pompous voice.
"The gifts of the gods are reawakening, not least in your daughter."
The assembled guests looked to Jocelyn. She made no indication she noticed, and continued to look steadily at her Lord Father.
Keep your composure, Widow Dustin had cautioned, they will be looking for any hint that you are the half-wildling savage the courtiers think weirwitches are.
Veran continued to speak. "But it is not only in the North that the gods have shown their faces once again. In the lands beyond the Wall, the old powers stir as well.
"The gods of winter live there as well, and many people of that land serve them faithfully. Shall we abandon them to face alone the demons of the night? To be preyed upon by lawless men who thrive beyond the Chosen's eye?"
Jocelyn knew that Veran was skirting a line here. Officially it was King Robert's justice that was the law of the north, which Lord Stark was deputized to carry out. The preosthad had never fully reconciled themselves to kneeling to a southron crown, though, and preferred to maintain that their loyalty was to House Stark, and only indirectly to Lord Stark's liege.
"The servants of the gods are not bound by lines drawn on the maps of men. We plan on traveling across the Great Wall, to aid the gods' children who live beyond it. Some of them may even choose to come back with us, to settle lands south of the Great Wall.
"Chosen of the Wolf, we ask for your blessing in this endeavor. We ask that you write to the Night's Watch and Lord Commander Thorne, requesting that the preosthad be given free passage under the wall, to and from the lands beyond, for whatever purposes the gods lead the elders to undertake."
Lord Stark asked them questions. How many did they expect to send across the Wall? And how often would they make the trip?
The other courtiers had questions as well. Hoarfrost Umber wished to know if they preosthad expected wildings to be settling in Umber lands.
Robb stood silently next to Father. She knew Father's advice to him on audiences: join the discussion too early, and you risk getting drawn into the argument on one side or another. Better to wait, and listen, and so assure the bannermen of their Lord's impartiality. Letting an argument get so heated that a Lord said something to their liege that they couldn't take back was the liege's failure, Father taught.
The issue of raiders came up.
"And how will we know," thundered Hoarfrost, "that these wildings you let across will not steal food from our stores, swords from our holdfasts, and women from their beds?" Several of the other courtiers standing among the trees around him murmured in agreement.
"The wildlings you have encountered heretofore were desperate folk," Veran countered. "They knew that should they be caught, their lives would be forfeit, regardless of any actual crimes they committed. Desperation makes even a good man do vile things. Should any wildlings return in the company of a weirwitch or goði, they would be part of a tribe, and have a place in the north they would risk losing if they fell afoul our laws.
"In any case, we are not proposing a wholesale opening of the Great Wall; we are merely asking that the Night's Watch let members of the preosthad through on the business of the gods."
More questions were lobbed, and eventually the moment Jocelyn had been dreading came.
"How do these good Lords know," asked the soft-spoken Maester Luwin, "that the gifts you say are returning are indeed coming back?"
Now the group looked to Jocelyn. She stroked Elina's fur, and several of the courtiers laughed. The giant bear seemed to realize attention was now focused on it, and it waved a paw to the crowd. The laughter increased.
"Animals can be trained, your sacredness," remarked Maester Luwin dryly.
His intransigence was no surprise; Veran and Widow Dustin had assumed the court would want a demonstration, and planned accordingly.
"My Lords," said Jocelyn, and she hoped that it was only in her imagination that her voice broke slightly, "If you wish, I can share the eyes of any of the ravens of Winterfell. Bring a raven here, and then take it away and display–a banner, a tapestry, anything brightly colored, and I will tell you what was displayed."
There was more murmuring around the group. "Very well," agreed Maester Luwin.
The raven was brought. Jocelyn took a deep breath, and with the ease of long practice, sank into herself and extended her senses. With the raven in front of her, eye to eye, slipping into its skin was no challenge.
Maester Luwin took the raven away. Jocelyn could see through its eyes, even as she held on to her own body. She had never thought the walk from the godswood to the little-used castle library was that long, but as she stood at the center of the court's attention, following Maester Luwin's ponderous progress across the castle, which nobody else could see, it felt like hours.
Finally the Maester arrived at the Library. Jocelyn noted with gratitude that he had the sense to turn up the lanterns; evening had crept up on them while they argued, and the raven's eyes were not particularly good in the dark. Maester Luwin shuffled through a set of parchments, then began showing a series of banners.
"Ryswell, Harclay, Tallhart, Hornwood," Jocelyn recited each banner to the crowd in the godswood.
"Tully, Arryn, Lannister, Martell," Jocelyn, the part of her mind still in her own body, could see a steadholder writing the banners she listed down on a scrap of parchment.
"The Goat of Qohor, the Titan of Braavos. That's all; he's coming back now." Then it was another long, awkward wait as Maester Luwin plodded back across the castle.
Once the Maester had returned to the godswood, he pulled out his own piece of parchment from one of his bottomless cloak pockets, cleared his throat, and began to read.
"Ryswell, Harclay, Tallhart, Hornwood–"
By the time he made it that far, it became difficult to hear him over the chatter in the godswood. The attention Jocelyn felt on herself shifted, and she wasn't entirely comfortable with it. A few people, including Maester Luwin and a tall knight in the garb of the Night's Watch, still looked skeptical, as if they suspected she had pulled off some mummer's trick. Many looked at her with calculating eyes, and Jocelyn could practically see their thoughts as they worked through how they could turn this new reality to their advantage, as they mentally began composing letters back to their Lords. And some gathered there looked at Jocelyn with something like reverence, which she liked least of all. Several representatives from the mountain clans even bowed their heads, touching their fingers to their foreheads, a gesture the most conservative goði still used in worship. It felt like… devotion. Jocelyn did not like it.
After her demonstration, the court had exhausted their questions for the preosthad. The small group of Black Brothers, however, still had to have their say. Jocelyn's uncle, Benjen, led them, along with the tall knight, who was now introduced as Ser Marq Farman, and another man, who appeared to be a simple ranger. This other man held Jocelyn's interest. He was slender, of middling height, with brown hair and a plain face. Yet he looked at the gathered preosthad with open interest, in contrast with the clear disdain on the face of Ser Farman. From the quirk of his lips whenever one of the assembled courtiers said something particularly foolish, Jocelyn received the impression that he found much of the pomp of court humorous, but was trying to school his laughter.
"The Night's Watch takes no part in the affairs of the Realm," began Uncle Benjen. Jocelyn again schooled her face to stillness. She knew this was not entirely true, both because a number of past Lord Commanders had certainly attempted, albeit unsuccessfully, to take part in the affairs of the Realm, and because to Jocelyn's mind unilaterally deciding that they would control what trade the Northern Houses had with the wildling tribes was by definition taking part in the affairs of those Houses.
She kept her mouth shut, though.
If this becomes a free-for-all argument on the merits of the Night's Watch, we are lost, Widow Dustin had warned. We have one request of your Lord Father, and we must stick to discussing that request.
"In exchange," Uncle Benjen continued, "the Night's Watch has not taken direction from any Lords of the Realm on how to conduct the affairs of the Watch, nor our operations in the Lands Beyond."
Jorelle Mormont spoke up at this. "The goði is not suggesting that Lord Stark direct you to do anything; merely that he request passage for the preosthad. And I don't see how this would affect your rangings beyond the Wall at all."
Jocelyn could see surprise on several faces around the woods; traditionally the Houses of the far north had stood united in opposition to any rapprochement with the wildling tribes.
But Jocelyn had heard rumors in her travels, rumors of ivory and fine furs coming south from Bear Island. Goods that the wildling tribes of the Frozen Shore had in abundance, and might be willing to trade in exchange for castle-forged steel.
And there were even darker rumors, that rough men in dark armor displaying no sigil would land on the Frozen Shore, kidnap an entire village, and disappear. Rumors that new merchandise, speaking the old tongue, had been seen on the auction blocks of the corsair slave markets on the Stepstones.
Rumors that nobody would give any credence to, if not for the fact that it was common knowledge that Lord Mormont's Hightower wife owned more silks and jewels than all the Lady Mormonts before her combined.
Still, there was no proof of the matter as of yet, and in truth it all had little to do with the question at hand, save to provide a possible reason that House Mormont at least might welcome an opening of the Great Wall.
The debate went on, as food was brought out for supper and the stars appeared through the leaves of the trees above. Elina appeared to give up on the whole thing and found a corner of the godswood to settle down in. Soon thereafter the discussion continued over a background of deep bear snores. Torches were, as always in this place, few and far between, since only a select group of servants were permitted to handle open flame in the sacred woods. It gave the whole assembly an otherworldly look, and Jocelyn imagined that they were all pale ghosts, dead and yet trapped forever in their final argument.
At last though the statements and counters came to a close.
"I will say only this," finished Benjen. "The Watch has guarded the realm for thousands of years. Our diligence safeguards us all–not only the Umbers and the Karstarks, but Winterfell and even the South–from the demons that still roam the Lands Beyond. You say that the old powers are reawakening? I say that is all the more reason to maintain our vigilance, lest at the most crucial hour we drop the shield that guards the realms of men."
Jocelyn could not say what made her speak now, after she had so diligently held her tongue through the interminable discussion. She spoke in barely more than a whisper, and yet it seemed that every head turned towards her. "And what, Uncle," she asked, "are the wildlings, if not men?"
Lord Stark's face gave nothing away as he looked between his brother and his daughter. "I will need to consider this issue carefully," he said at last. And with that, the audience was over.
Jocelyn had never been more glad to go to bed. She had barely done anything all day, just waiting, and standing, and more waiting and more standing. Skinchanging could be tiring over long periods, but the brief touch today had been nothing compared to her usual routine in the forest.
Somehow the constant attention, the need to weigh every word, the worry that even a misplaced smile or a laugh she couldn't help would send an unintended message—it was all more exhausting than a long march through the snow.
And yet, as she lay in her bed, Jocelyn found she couldn't sleep. Part of it was the strange surroundings. The castle was the only place where she slept by herself; out in the forest she would sleep next to Ramsay and Osha at the very least, and often more as they traveled with one group or another. In towns she would be crammed into a home with whichever family would have them. Usually that meant sharing a single sleeping room with several generations of the same family.
But here she was given a room of her own, which felt too quiet, too hot, and too dark. The last one she could fix if she wanted; the servants assured her that she could use as many of the whale oil lamps as she desired to make the room bright. But that would only make the heat worse, and Jocelyn was already sweating as she lay on top of blankets in her shift.
Luxury, she thought, was overrated.
And she had spoken out of turn, at the very end. She had spoken! It was the one thing Widow Dustin and Veran had told her not to do. Do not speak unless you are asked a question, Veran had said. Widow Dustin had gone further. Do not speak unless you are asked a question for which we have prepared an answer with you, she had amended. Else one of the Elders will speak up for you.
She didn't think they'd looked angry with her as everyone had filed out of the godswood, but mayhaps they were simply waiting until the morning when they had the full day to expound upon their displeasure?
Why, why did she speak out?
A soft knock on the door roused her from her introspection.
A servant pushed open the door slightly and quietly slid into the room.
"M'lady," the servant said, face obscured by a poorly-fitted wimple, "I just came to your ladyship, so see if your ladyship's arse needed to be wiped free of shit, your ladyship ma'am."
"Excuse me?" Jocelyn started to say, completely nonplussed by the servant's words, but then she realized what was going on here. "Ramsay! What are you doing here?"
The other acolyte laughed and took the wimple off. "Coming to see you, of course. I couldn't just leave you here with all your fawning servants, who knows how big your head would be by the time you left."
Ramsay shucked her servant's garb, and Jocelyn privately thought she was lucky the hour was so late; the outfit would never have held up to scrutiny in the light of day.
"Plus I wanted to hear how the audience went."
Jocelyn grimaced. "It could have gone better, I suppose. Father didn't grant the request, but he hasn't denied it yet either. He said he needed to consider." Jocelyn bit her lip. "And I spoke out of turn, right at the end."
"I'm sure it's fine," said Ramsay. "I don't know why we're asking anyways. The Skagosi are happy to ferry us over there, and even those cunts at Eastwatch aren't mad enough to tangle with them."
Jocelyn didn't say anything; they'd already had this conversation a dozen times, and no words of hers would ever stop Ramsay from simply reaching out to take what she wanted. Friends though they were, Jocelyn could admit there was something in her fellow acolyte that was… off. Ramsay didn't seem to view other people as fully human. She had a small group of friends to whom she was almost possessively loyal—Jocelyn herself, Osha, and a handful of other acolytes they traveled with fairly frequently—but outside of that Ramsay just didn't seem to understand why other people's thoughts and feelings needed to be considered.
"Did you talk to Osha about your wandering?" asked Jocelyn to change the subject. Before an acolyte was ready to take the skjoldmada and commit her life to the gods, she was required to spend some time doing the gods' work apart from her mentor. The Wandering, it was called, since acolytes often took the opportunity to travel to some part of the North they were not yet familiar with.
"We talked," said Ramsay. "She said both of us are ready. She was going to talk to you as well once this audience is over."
"After it's over?"
"She wouldn't say why. I assume that's because if Lord Stark is willing you'll go with her beyond the Wall."
Jocelyn nodded. It made sense; Jocelyn didn't know the Lands Beyond at all, but if they were searching for skinchangers they would need someone who could guide the ones they found. And with gifts cropping up south of the Wall as well—Jocelyn had just heard of another weatherworker in a village on the Stony Shore not a moon's turn ago—one of them also needed to stay in the North to provide guidance to the new acolytes.
But it all depended on the audience today. The uncertainty of it was weighing on her more than she would admit.
Ramsay seemed to see through her. "You need to relax," she suggested. "There's nothing you can change now, you might as well." Without waiting for a response Ramsay started to massage Jocelyn's shoulders.
"Here, I brought you something." Ramsay said after a moment, and she dropped a small bundle into Jocelyn's lap. Jocelyn recognized it immediately as one of the pastilles of dried soma the goði put in the bonfires for certain rituals. The smoke did have a calming effect, but to use such a thing for that alone…
"Ramsay! This is supposed to be used in a sacrifice." Jocelyn flipped the pastille over and saw tell-tale marks of dried blood painted on the fiber wrapping. "Look—a goði already consecrated it!"
Ramsay simply smirked and snatched the pastille back out of Jocelyn's hands before holding over the only lamp burning in the room. The dried fiber wrapping caught immediately.
"If you're so worried, make a sacrifice then and petition the gods for something." She tossed the bundle into the fireplace, which Jocelyn had been far too warm to use so far, and closed the flue. Immediate the smoke from the pastille started to curl around the mantle instead of rising up the chimney.
"I don't keep small animals on me just in case I need to bleed one. Unlike some people I know." Jocelyn glared at Ramsay, but the other girl only laughed.
"You've got veins, don't you?"
Jocelyn gave in. Like Ramsay knew I would, she thought resignedly. One thing that hadn't changed over the years was that Ramsay still didn't know the meaning of "no": she would just find some other angle to push, and then another, until she got her way. And Jocelyn was more uncomfortable than she would admit at the thought of burning a consecrated pastille without any sort of offering. What if the gods actually were offended?
"Fine, but it needs to be somewhere that won't show tomorrow."
"Still afraid of Lady Stark?"
"I'm afraid of what Veran will do after he specifically told us not to give the court any reason to wag their tongues." And I don't need to give him any more reason to be angry with me, Jocelyn added silently.
Ramsay stuck her own tongue out as if to demonstrate. "Unwrap your dress then, I'll do you under your tit."
Jocelyn obliged as Ramsay pulled out a small athame. The sharp iron felt warm against her skin as Ramsay pressed the blade to it.
"Careful!" exclaimed Jocelyn. Ramsay had carved a long gash with a casual flick, which immediately started to bleed copiously.
"You're the one who didn't want to offend the gods. You don't want to risk an insufficient sacrifice."
"I don't want to risk bleeding out either."
"Don't be a baby," chided Ramsay. "You're acting like we've never done this before." She coated both sides of the athame with blood, then leaned over to the fireplace to let the blood drip onto the pastille, which was now smouldering and emitting a thicker smoke that filled the room. She repeated the process twice more, making different patterns with the blood each time, as she spoke.
"Gods hear our prayer we sacrifice this blood to you our sister's life essence a symbol of our devotion to you, did I forget anything?" Ramsay sped through the required chant.
"Make a petition," said Jocelyn. In truth she didn't mind Ramsay hurrying; no bandage could go on her until the ritual was finished, lest she demean the sacrifice, and her blood was now oozing down her side and dripping onto the reeds.
"A petition! Right. I guess we should ask for favor with your Father." Ramsay turned back to the fire. "Gods hear our prayer grant that Lord Stark will listen and do the thing we want him to and be very honorable and all not like that time he fucked Jos's mother."
"Ramsay!"
"What? Do you think the gods will make your Father refuse us because I brought up your mother? I'm not the one who fucked her. Though if she looks like you I'd consider–"
"You're terrible! Now if you're finished insulting the gods hand me that bandage, I think I'm starting to feel faint here." Jocelyn was actually slightly worried; she'd sacrificed her own blood before and never felt this lightheaded. Was she losing more blood than she thought?
Ramsay sat down on the bed and leaned against her.
"You know," she said, a little dreamily. "I think the goði make these pastilles for outdoor fires. Breezes and shit. It's rather a lot in a little room like this."
"Ramsay," said Jocelyn placidly, not disagreeing with her—the smoke really was quite thick in the room now, "why are you taking your hides off?"
"It's so hot in here," replied Ramsay in that same dreamy voice.
"That makes sense," said Jocelyn. She had been worried before, she knew, but now she couldn't see why. Everything was going to be alright.
Jocelyn closed her eyes, one hand holding the bandage against her rib, one arm wrapped around her friend, who had snuggled into the bed with her.
"Told you this was a good idea," said Ramsay, as she nuzzled Jocelyn's neck.
"Why," murmured Jocelyn, as she luxuriated in the comfort of a friend's touch, "would I ever doubt you?"
Author Note: As you may have noticed already, drugs are a big part of worship of the old gods. And that's based on history! Drugs have been used in religious ceremonies for as far back as we have records.
I'm showing Winterfell as much more of a court here than what was described in canon. But I hope I'm also showing why this sort of thing is inevitable. Lord Stark makes decisions that affect the whole North. Lords are going to realize that their House will be better off if they have a representative in Winterfell. Once a few courtiers gather it snowballs. Have a child you need to find a good marriage for? Winterfell is the best place to scout prospects. Want to discuss a trade arrangement with a Lord on the other side of the North? If you both have people at Winterfell anyway they can lay the groundwork over a ball or a feast.
The point is that it doesn't really matter whether the current Lord Stark finds court life frustrating; it's going to gather wherever the centers of decision making are.
One random thing I learned while confirming family trees is that, technically, Jorah Mormont is Margaery Tyrell's uncle in canon, a thing that never once comes up.