In the Sixteenth Year of the Reign of King Robert

Jocelyn stepped into the castle yard, and wondered whether the dull pain from the healing cut on her ribs was worse than the sharp pain the cool morning sunlight was creating in her head. What she was certain of was that, despite Ramsay's best intentions, she would be better off had she simply laid awake and anxious all night.

And the memories… there had been a lot of giggling, Jocelyn could remember now. And a bowl of honey, which the servants had left to dip bread in. Jocelyn remembered having—ideas—about what to do with the honey, which Ramsay had enthusiastically implemented.

She wanted to deny that particular memory, but the stickiness she could still feel paid mute testimony with each step.

Her memories grew stranger as the night progressed. She had drifted in and out, sweat and blood and honey coating her skin, hazy smoke filling the room, Ramsay's body next to hers. She must have gone to sleep eventually, because she remembered the strangest dreams: a man surrounded by rivers, burning a letter; a knight in a white cloak, watching a woman scream through a crack in a door; her sister Arya, older, dying in a birthing bed…

Was that a prophetic dream? Jocelyn hoped not. No true seers had emerged among the preosthad, not yet, but all the old songs agreed that true prophetic dreams could be misinterpreted but never forestalled. And even if it was, what was she to do? Warn Arya that she might die in childbirth someday? She may as well warn a soldier that battle was dangerous.

It was a lesson, Jocelyn decided, as she stepped under an archway, the shade offering a brief respite, a gentle reminder from the gods not to misuse the gifts they give to open their servants' minds. Elina ambled beside her, having no doubt gotten an excellent sleep in the castle godswood.

At least it would be an easy day. With nothing more to do until Lord Stark gave his answer, but no point in leaving the castle until then, Jocelyn would spend time with her sisters, and maybe declaim a poem or two for the ladies of the court.

This was another change that had crept up on her over the years. Her memories of roaming the castle, Robb her constant companion, were long gone. Now they each had their own spheres: Robb to his training at arms and shadowing Father in dealing with his Lords, and Sansa to lessons in music and embroidery, shadowing Lady Stark as she managed the household of Winterfell.

The younger siblings were split as well. Bran followed his older brother around, looking in truth like Robb in miniature, while Arya grudgingly went with Sansa.

The ladies had already taken to their sewing by the time Jocelyn, who felt strangely ravenous, finished her breakfast. She found them sitting under a pavilion in the inner courtyard. Summer had stretched on for four years, and the wood panels and fabrics hangings and glass windows that kept the keep so warm in winter left it stifling even on cooler days such as this one.

Lady Stark was doing embroidery with her retinue, and Jocelyn saw that Sansa had joined the circle of ladies doing their own work, as opposed to the children who were still ostensibly being taught. The novelty of being allowed to sit with the grown-ups was still fresh for Sansa, and she practically glowed with excitement.

Lady Stark greeted her politely enough. There was something strange in her expression, almost smiling but not quite. Jocelyn couldn't place it, and her head was too fuzzy to puzzle it out.

The treatment she received from the Lady of the castle was one change that Jocelyn had welcomed over the years. Jocelyn understood Lady Stark better now—at least she thought she did. The understanding made it easier, knowing that the coldness she had received as a child was not, at some level, anything to do with her. Lady Stark, after all, could hardly be happy about the regular reminder of her husband's indiscretion.

And as Jocelyn grew older and her place in the preosthad became more entrenched, Lady Stark seemed to lose some of the cold edge she'd held towards her husband's bastard. Jocelyn could understand that as well. Were she unattached, she would be a constant source of not only shame but of fear—the worry, however baseless, and however unlikely given her sex, that Lord Stark had plans to use Jocelyn to supplant his southron-blooded children. That fact that Jocelyn had a place in the world and a future that would set her forever apart from being able to inherit or even own property had removed the worry. Lady Stark liked things to be in their place. A husband fathering a bastard put things out of place; both north and south seemed to agree that sending that bastard to the gods restored the proper order of things. And, Jocelyn supposed, the passage of time. Everything dulled in time.

Jocelyn had been seated only a moment when Jeyne Poole leaned towards her.

"I heard a rumor that you killed a mountain bear, by yourself!"

Jocelyn felt a chill, even amidst the growing warmth of the morning. "Yes," she said simply.

"Can you tell me about it? Were you scared? Was it just you or did you have help? Did Elina help you?"

Jocelyn held up her hand for peace. "Please do not ask me to recount the tale. I know it sounds like it would be an exciting one, but I shamed myself that day."

Jeyne looked confused, and even Sansa looked a little hurt. Jocelyn took a deep breath and relented.

"I got between a mother and her cubs. The mother did what any mother would do, and attacked me. I am not sad that I prevailed and live to tell you about it, but… the bear's loss hurt the forest, and it was one that could have been avoided had I paid proper attention to my surroundings. There was no reason either of us had to die that day."

"Was the bear very frightening?" asked Sansa.

"She was magnificent," replied Jocelyn. "The height of two men, reared up in front of me. And all the strength of a mountain. It wasn't like sparring. With the power of her arm the first time she hit me would have been the last."

"How did you kill it?" asked Jeyne, almost in a whisper.

"She charged me and I managed to bury my spear in her leg. It was enough that I could run to open up some space and have time for a bowshot." Jocelyn looked down at her embroidery. She had managed a small number of stitches, all of which looked terrible. "And then I sobbed, for how long I couldn't say."

Jocelyn stroked Elina's fur, as if to apologize again to her companion for depriving her of her mother.

"Jocelyn," said a new voice from behind her.

Jocelyn turned to see Widow Dustin. "Walk with me," the older woman said.

They walked together back towards the Main Keep. Abutting the west side were the apartments dedicated to the preosthad—the Dustin apartments.

Jocelyn had heard that, in the south, the Church of the Seven had huge amounts of coin at its disposal. Things were very different in the North. The servants of the gods, by oath and long tradition, owned no property at all. Even Jocelyn's spear was, officially, merely loaned to her, and if she ever came across a hunter or another weirwitch whose need of it was greater, Jocelyn would pass it on to them without a second thought.

In the forest and smaller towns, the servants of the gods would bed down in any house that would have them, and eat and drink what was offered. In the larger towns and major castles, a more permanent arrangement was needed. At Winterfell, this took the form of Widow Dustin, the patron of the Winterfell preosthad. She turned over her family's holdings in Wintertown and apartments in the castle to be used by the preosthad. In truth far more than the Dustin holdings was involved: upon her appointment to the position there was a complicated set of exchanges between many of the noble families to ensure that the gods would be pleased by the gifts to their servants.

What it meant was that there was space for the elders, for a contingent of weirwitches and goði who lived in Wintertown or the castle more or less permanently, and for the regular influx of those passing through as they traveled the forest on the gods' business.

The Winterfell apartments was where they walked to now. The barely-healed cut on her rib pulled, but Jocelyn fought to keep a straight face and a steady gate while keeping up with Widow Dustin, who despite her age was tall and walked with a speed completely at odds with the stately posture she maintained while doing it. Widow Dustin occasionally spoke to this servant or that courtier, but otherwise seemed content to wait for Jocelyn to say something. Finally the tension became too much.

"I spoke out of turn last night."

"Yes, you did."

Another long silence passed. They stepped out of the sunlight and into a dim hall with many rooms opening onto it.

"So… I'm in trouble."

"No."

"No?"

Widow Dustin said no more until they had arrived at her quarters and assured some semblance of privacy, though the older woman had warned Jocelyn many times never to assume she could not be overheard, regardless of where she was.

"No," Widow Dustin confirmed, "for two reasons. The first is that you are getting to the stage of your life where it will not be up to me or anyone else to 'get you in trouble'. Your words have consequences for you, for your family, for the preosthad, and for good or for ill you will bear those consequences."

That sounded a lot like getting into trouble, Jocelyn thought privately.

"And secondly," Widow Dustin continued, "you seem to have good instincts."

Jocelyn frowned. "That sounds like praise, my Lady."

"Don't be impertinent!" Widow Dustin snapped. "You spoke out of turn, yes, but the words you spoke could have been worse. You staked no position that could come back to bite you. You reformed your Uncle's words into a question, and let your audience fill in the answer you wanted."

"I— " Jocelyn started, "I didn't really think through all that."

"I know," snorted Widow Dustin, "which is why you still have much to learn. But for your first time in the capacity of supplicant, you appear to have good instincts."

Jocelyn blushed. Widow Dustin rarely gave out praise of any kind.

"Besides," she continued, "I'm sure you spend all night beating yourself up about it."

"Oh. Right," stammered Jocelyn. "I did, um, wake this morning feeling very unrested."

"Take some time then to rest this afternoon. Tonight your Lord Father feasts the preosthad and the black brothers both. It will not be as formal as the audience, but eyes will still be on you."

Jocelyn knew the advice was good, but she had far too much to think about to get any rest laying in bed. Instead she made her way to one of the balconies overlooking the training yard. As she expected, she found her younger sister there, avoiding the needlework the rest of the girls her age were off learning.

"It's not fair!" Arya griped to Jocelyn almost as soon as they sat down. "I'm a better sword than Bran, and a much better rider, but he gets to train with Robb and I'm stuck with embroidery."

Jocelyn shrugged. "Swordplay is overrated anyway."

"Not you too!" Arya moaned. "Sansa told me you would get all girly once you grew tits, but I told her she was wrong." Arya gave her older sister a look of deepest betrayal.

Jocelyn merely laughed, certain that Arya had embellished her sister's language. "I don't mean that learning to fight is useless. But swordfighting—that's a game for nobles. It matters when you have space to play in and not too much armor. If you want to kill something, get a nice long spear. Better yet, put an arrow in it while it's still too far away to touch you." Arya's eyes grew wide, but the conversation reminded Jocelyn of the story she had given Sansa and Jeyne that morning, and her voice grew soft and sad.

"And you should know," she continued, "that girly things aren't bad, any more than having tits is. The mother wolf nurses her young from her own body, then gets up and hunts the stag."

"Well I don't want to nurse anybody," said Arya with revulsion.

"Gods be good you won't for many years yet. Besides," Jocelyn said with a sly smile, "you noble women can always get somebody else to do that part for you."

"Can a wetnurse push a giant baby out of my cunt for me?" Arya shot back.

"Arya Stark, where have you been hearing such language?"

Arya blushed, but remained defiant. "It's how Theon and Robb talk!"

"Well," said Jocelyn, "I think you should go straight to your Lady Mother and tell her about this." When Arya's face fell, Jocelyn added, "at least, that's what you'll tell Theon and Robb you'll do if they don't borrow a practice sword for you from the armory so you can train."

Arya's face split into a huge grin. "Robb!" she shouted. "Robb, I need to ask you something. Robb!"

Arya pelted down the stairs to the yard below, while Jocelyn smiled fondly at her siblings.

Dinner in the Great Hall was a strained affair. It was not particularly large, as such dinners went; neither the Night's Watch nor the preosthad had brought much in the way of retinue. Jocelyn could have wished for larger, for a crowd of people to provide a buffer between parties that seemed determined to get under each other's skin.

Ser Farman's very presence was something of a burr for the elders of the preosthad. He had, after all, sworn a sacred vow to the Seven to uphold the Faith's notions of honor. For a thousand years before the dragons came, that had included killing every northern heathen he might have come across. From the looks Ser Farman gave their company, he at least wouldn't have minded if that were still part of his vows.

Elder Quane was not inclined to make things more comfortable for Ser Farman, either. Without waiting for permission, he had started the meal by stringing up boar entrails around the hearths of the Great Hall. It was the form of the blessing used when feasting inside. The gods did not strictly require it to be performed at every feast, but the Lords assembled could hardly object to a goði offering worship. Ser Farman eyed the offerings with revulsion, as he chewed his meat with more vigor than needed and refused altogether any portion of the sacrificed boar.

The meal progressed, largely in silence save for the occasional thinly-veiled barb. But as Hoarfrost Umber steadily drank more mead, he grew steadily bolder. The man could not openly mock the preosthad, who were after all the mouthpiece of the gods. So he settled instead for regaling the table of tales of the wildlings killed on Umber land.

Uncle Benjen kept his face still, while Ser Farman voiced open approval. The younger black brother, though, who Jocelyn had noticed earlier, was getting more and more angry as Hoarfrost's tales grew more belligerent. When Hoarfrost started in on another story and promised to tell how he "taught one of their spearwives her place," the man finally slammed his dirk into the table.

Uncle Benjen stood up before it could come to blows. "I apologize, my Lords," he addressed the table, "my brother here has had too much to drink." Lord Stark nodded, and the black brothers retired for the evening.

Jocelyn left the hall soon after, her head still not fully recovered from the night before. Something was bothering her about her audience, something Ramsay had said…

She made her way to the godswood, to offer prayers before retiring for the night. To her surprise, the black brother was already there. He knelt in silence in front of the heart tree, along with a number of lower-ranking members of the preosthad and castle servants.

Only as the stars came out, and the worshippers rose to take themselves to bed, did the ranger speak.

"Sacredness," he said, inclining his head.

"Ser," Jocelyn replied. "I'd heard the black brothers mostly worshiped the Seven."

The ranger shifted. "The officers, yes. The men, though, they're mostly from the North."

Jocelyn frowned. "It's said that the men of the Night's Watch hail from all the Seven Kingdoms."

"I cannot speak to what is said," said the ranger, with a chuckle, "but I know our recruits, and precious few of them come from the south, other than the occasional highborn."

Jocelyn wasn't sure what to make of that, so she said nothing.

"This wasn't what I expected," said the ranger after a time.

"Winterfell?" asked Jocelyn. "Or the Starks?"

"Both. All of it." The ranger sighed. "I was raised at the Wall, you know. All I've ever known of the lands south of it comes from the talk of the other brothers. They speak as if the whole realm is unified behind our mission. They say we protect the Realm from the savage wildlings who would consume the land like locusts if they were let through. And then I come here, and your elders are asking us to just let them in!"

"That wasn't exactly what we asked," murmured Jocelyn. The ranger didn't bother to argue the point.

"It's not just— " the ranger ran his hand over his face. "I've watched the men here drilling. We talk about the dangers of the wildlings, but there's more strength in your Father's household guard than in the fiercest tribe beyond the Wall." The ranger looked lost in thought. "I don't know what our purpose is, not anymore, but this trip has made me realize that protecting Winterfell from half-starved foragers cannot possibly be it."

"It used to be different," said Jocelyn. "That's what my Lord Father says. But when the dragons came, they needed a place to send the knights who wouldn't bend the knee, but whose families might be wroth at executions. That's when the Wall became a place for prisoners."

The ranger nodded, and seemed to make up his mind about something.

"Will the preosthad send someone across, even if your Lord Father denies your petition?"

He won't, thought Jocelyn. But to the ranger she only nodded. "I think so. But the elders do not confide their plans in me."

"I'd be honored to accompany them."

Jocelyn looked around quickly. The ranger had spoken quietly, but if any had overheard… Jocelyn had never met Lord Commander Thorne, but from what little she'd heard of him he didn't seem like the type of man to countenance desertion.

Jocelyn stood. "The hour is late, ser. I should retire." She paused as they walked to the archway back to the main castle. "And what name, my good ranger, should I give my fellow servants of the gods?"

"Tell them to find Mance," said the ranger. "My name is Mance Rayder."

Jocelyn fully intended to walk straight back to her chambers, but when she stopped as she passed another.

Jocelyn hesitated only for a moment before knocking.

Widow Dustin opened the door.

"The preosthad does not need anybody's permission to go beyond the Wall."

Widow Dustin gave her a measured look. "No."

"You formally asked my Lord Father to force him to pick between his obligations to the gods and his duty to the Ream."

"You think so?"

Jocelyn went on. "And if the preosthad had official permission to operate beyond the Wall, you could bring the weirwitches in the Lands Beyond into the fold, and create a new power base independent of the King or any of the Lords of the North."

"I stand by what I said before. You have good instincts. But you need knowledge and discipline to temper them."

"So…"

"So it is far too late for lessons tonight."

With that, Widow Dustin softly closed the door.

Ramsay didn't visit that night, not that Jocelyn expected her to. Osha was no fool, and whatever ruse Ramsay had used to get away from her mentor in Wintertown once would not work a second time. So Jocelyn tossed and turned, alone on a too-comfortable bed, desperately tired but unable to sleep. At some point it was suddenly morning. Jocelyn did not remember dreaming.

Clouds had rolled in overnight, and a light rain that had slowly and steadily soaked the ground thoroughly.

Jocelyn broke her fast in a damp hall, and had not quite finished when the whispers started that Lord Stark was ready to answer the preosthad. The elders, at the high table, rose and made their way towards the godswood.

Robb was there, this time, and Theon was next to him. Jocelyn hid a scowl. She cared for her brother, but Theon Greyjoy had only grown more insufferable as he entered manhood—and what was worse, it seemed that Robb now considered him a close friend. Theon walked about Winterfell acting as if every girl was his for the taking, and Jocelyn knew that the acolytes without noble parents were warned never to find themselves alone with him.

But Robb somehow viewed Theon's fake confidence as admirable. He had even, gods forbid, started walking a bit like Theon, as if trying the swagger out. Jocelyn hoped he'd grow out of it. Completely besides her personal dislike of Theon, the other Northern Houses could hardly be happy to see the hostage for behavior of the Greyjoys become the Stark heir's closest friend.

"There they are," Theon smirked. He sauntered over and lowered his voice so only Jocelyn could hear him. "I meant to tell you, I very much enjoyed one of your northern rites the other night. Little Ossian sang so loud, by the time I was done she was ready to join the Drowned God."

"Many Northmen participate in the sacred rites," said Jocelyn. "The gods thus give them courage in battle. I wonder," said Jocelyn, leaning in, "if Rodrik and Maron had had such blessings, mayhaps they would have kept their heads?"

"Jos," said Robb warningly. He looked upset, which Jocelyn didn't blame him for. Theon was speaking outrageously of the rites by which some weirwitches chose to honor the gods.

"Make your japes, woman," Theon spat. "Your own Father is about to turn down your request and send you back to the trees where you belong. And once you're gone, I think I'll pay a visit to Ossian again. I'm not sure I was quite as rough as she wanted last time."

"Father," Jocelyn snarled, "is not about to turn down our request."

Elina growled, low in her throat. Theon started at the sound, then his face seemed to harden as if to make up for his momentary showing of fear.

"Open your eyes, he's not going to offend the southron houses for his bastard."

"It's not for— my Father," Jocelyn said, and some part of her mind was aware of how loud they had gotten, as other courtiers had filed into the godswood, "my Father cares more about the gods than southrons who have never set foot in the north! The gods ask this of him and he will listen to them!"

There was silence in the godswood, and Jocelyn belatedly realized she had been shouting, and that the godswood had filled with courtiers while she had argued with Theon.

She looked around and met Father's cool gray eyes. Jocelyn felt her stomach drop as she realized what these hasty words had cost her.

Before she could say anything, Father raised his hand. He wasted no time on preambles.

"I have taken time to carefully consider this request from the servants of the gods. I have listened to the elders, heard the black brothers, and prayed in front of the heart tree.

"I will not submit a request to the Night's Watch to allow members of the preosthad through the Great Wall. The mission of the goði is important, and I believe they should work with the Night's Watch to fulfill it. But the mission of the Night's Watch is important as well, not least to the weirwoods of the North. I cannot jeopardize the independence that has served all the realms of men for so long."

Father kept talking, but Jocelyn heard none of it. The cold she had felt drop into her stomach now spread throughout her body, prickly against her skin, and a noise like a strong wind filled her ears.

Jocelyn somehow made it through the rest of the hearing. She made it as far as the castle yard before Robb stopped her. They stood, mud clinging to their feet, the patient, relentless rain steadily working its way through clothing.

"It's true," he said without preamble. "Your preosthad was deliberately embarrassing Father."

"What? No!" replied Jocelyn. "The petition was genuine. The old gifts are returned to us, beyond the Great Wall more than anywhere."

"But you didn't need to petition Father to go there."

Jocelyn, thinking of her conversation with Widow Dustin, paused. The pause was all the confirmation Robb needed.

"I defended you. I told my Lady Mother that even if the elders were playing politics you had nothing to do with it."

"But I didn't—"

"And then," Robb bulled over Jocelyn's objections, "you went and told the whole court that if Father refuses you he is refusing the gods!"

"I didn't mean— I was just— that Greyjoy ass—"

"I thought you cared about your family," said Robb.

"Robb…" said Jocelyn, pleading.

"Your sacredness," said Robb, coldly formal now that he'd had his say. "Now that your audience with my Lord Father is at an end, I'm sure one of the servants can show you out of the castle."

Widow Dustin's words came back to Jocelyn. Your words have consequences for you, for your family, for the preosthad, and for good or for ill you will bear those consequences.

Over Robb's shoulder, Jocelyn could see Lady Stark, standing back but clearly able to hear the two of them talking. She was wearing that same smile she had on the morning before, and Jocelyn finally realized what it was: it was the look of someone who predicted something terrible and was somehow happy to be proven right.

Jocelyn stumbled towards the City Gate. Before she got there, she felt two pairs of arms around her.

"Robb is a boy, and boys are stupid," said Sansa.

"I can stab him for you," said Arya.

Jocelyn didn't have it in her to smile, but some of the tightness around her heart eased. "Don't stab your brother. I— I'll be back. Everything got heated all of a sudden, but we just need some space. Just some time," She kissed Arya on the top of her head.

"Everything will be back to normal soon." Jocelyn wasn't even sure who she was trying to reassure.

Jocelyn retreated from the castle with as much dignity as she could muster. She leaned on Elina for support, but tried to pass it off as petting the bear. Osha was waiting for her at the City Gate, and they walked through the narrow streets of Wintertown to the apartments where the visiting preosthad stayed. Widow Dustin's holdings, Jocelyn thought. Ramsay was waiting for them there.

"Thought you might want to get changed," said Osha. For a moment Jocelyn thought she meant because her clothes were soaked through—but then she realized that she was still in her castle garb.

"Yes." Jocelyn began shucking off the hide dress, reaching for a simple wrap that Osha handed her. Around her others went about their business: here a goði mending a piece of clothing; here a weirwitch sleeping after a night spent at a sickbed; there an acolyte trying to remember a stanza of a poem.

There was no privacy in the preosthad, but the mundane familiarity of it all soothed Jocelyn. Here at least she could let down her guard, stop worrying about how every word and gesture would be taken.

Jocelyn sat on a lumpy pallet and cried, as Osha and Ramsay wrapped their arms around her.

"Come," said Osha, once the flow of Jocelyn's tears had abated, "let us talk while we work."

They set out again into the light rain. Jocelyn could taste the coming sunshine on the wind, but she guessed it wouldn't get to Wintertown until the following morning. They walked, and soon came to a pavilion set up on the edge of one of the town woods, where anyone in need of it could come for healing.

Jocelyn checked the small stove, added some wood to it, and set two pots to boil. The larger one she would use to clean the soiled linens, and the smaller for brewing the willow bark tea that the sick house used in abundance.

"Your Wandering," said Osha to her two acolytes, "will begin at the end of the sennight."

Jocelyn felt her eyebrows rise, and could see her expression mirrored on Ramsay's face. She had known it would be soon, but she hadn't realized it would be that soon. It was too much, everything happening all at once, Robb and Ramsay and Osha and everyone was changing on her.

But there wasn't anything to do except stand and let the time wash over her.

"Do you have any… is there a particular… what should we do?" Even as Jocelyn said it, she felt foolish. The whole point of a Wandering was for an acolyte to feel the call of the gods on her life for herself. If her mentor told her what to do it was tantamount to failing to trust the gods to provide guidance.

Thankfully, Osha didn't scold her, and neither did she answer.

"You are known to the preosthad throughout these lands," she said instead. "You both know the forest and her ways. You will do fine, and in another two dozen moons will be ready for your skjoldmada." She cupped Jocelyn's cheek, then put an arm around Ramsay's shoulders. "I have faith in the gods and in you."

Jocelyn felt more tears gathering in her eyes, different than the ones before and yet so similar.

"Are you going north of the Wall?" asked Ramsay. "Lord Stark never said we couldn't."

Osha raised an eyebrow. "For the preosthad to ignore the clear wishes of the Chosen of the Wolf, and then argue on a technicality, would be most unwise."

Ramsay raised her own eyebrow. "So don't get caught, and then you won't have to argue on anything, technicality or otherwise."

Osha merely laughed and hugged Ramsay harder. "Oh my wild one, I will miss you."

Ramsay and Jocelyn worked the afternoon away, speaking of nothing in particular except the gossip of the Wintertown acolytes.

"Maybe it's better this way," said Ramsay. "If we don't work through the black brothers, they can't add any conditions to our travels."

"Mmm," said Jocelyn. She'd been making a number of noncommittal noises of agreement that afternoon.

"Hey," said Ramsay at last, putting her hands on Jocelyn's shoulders and turning her to meet her eyes. "Are you okay?"

"I'm— I'm fine. I'll be fine."

"Did you fight with Robb?" Ramsay asked.

"Not— not exactly."

"Did you fuck him then?" Ramsay's face lit up with amazed glee.

"Ramsay! No, that's gross." Jocelyn tried to sound serious but couldn't help laughing. "You are so gross."

"Gross, please." Ramsay rolled her eyes. "I hear it's all the rage down south."

"We argued, okay, we argued. And nothing else." Jocelyn sighed. "He's upset with what he feels like are my split loyalties."

"Between the Starks and the preosthad?" guessed Ramay. "Men," she spat.

Jocelyn laughed again, then grew solemn. "Sansa was more right than she knew. Robb is a boy. He's been raised a Stark and he'll become Lord Stark and he'll never be put in a position where the interests of his new family are at odds with his old."

"Yeah, not like us bastards," said Ramsay, and she leaned her head on Jocelyn's shoulder. "Hey, do you think one of the food merchants on the Trade Road would gift us some more honey?"

"No, Ramsay, I'm barely cleaned up from the last time." Pushing her incorrigible friend off of her, the two went back to work.

It wasn't until the sennight was over, the goodbyes all said, and Osha was setting out on a journey whose destination none would speak of, that Jocelyn remembered the other conversation she'd had in the castle.

"Osha," Jocelyn called out, as her mentor walked away, "if you do happen to need to get across the Wall, the ranger they call Mance would be willing to help you."

Osha nodded, then continued to walk into the forest.

Author Note: The Night's Watch is going to be fairly different here than in canon. For one thing I don't buy that it was made up of people from all over Westeros since its founding. If Tywin Lannister can figure out that sending people to man the Wall only frees up Stark forces that would otherwise need to fight wildlings, then presumably the leaders of the other Kingdoms could figure that out as well.