In the Eighteenth Year of the Reign of King Robert
Jocelyn first heard the song in an inn outside Barrowton. The King's Lord, it was called, and the singer swore it was all the rage in White Harbor, across the North, and that even south of the Neck a version in the Common Tongue could be heard.
There was a Lord who loved his King full well,
And hurried to obey his ev'ry whim
Afore his King upon his knees he fell,
"Your Grace," he'd say, "for you I'd do anything."
The singer gave an exaggerated eyebrow waggle on the last line, to a few chuckles in the room.
The inn he was singing to was full to bursting, as farmhands from the heavily worked fields that stretched away from Barrowton to the west congregated here at the end of the day. The building itself had seen better times. The walls were wattle and daub, thick and unwashed, and it looked like any chinks that had arisen over the years had been jammed up with moss or rags or whatever else the proprietor happened to have in their hand in the moment. The straw on the floor was recent, at least, and there were tables and benches of rough-hewn wood. It was very dark, with no windows to let in sunlight even if it hadn't just set, and only a large fire in the hearth along the far wall to light the room. Jocelyn supposed she could hardly blame them for the lack of candles; the building was a giant tinderbox and Jocelyn was sure one good spark in the wrong place would see it—and her—reduced to ashes by morning.
As Jocelyn sat, listening to the singer continue The King's Lord, crowded in by rough men on either side of her whose arm motions were getting more expansive the later the evening went, her tunic cold and sticky after one of the wenches had tried to get a pitcher of ale onto the crowded table and been only mostly successful, she reflected that this was not how she had imagined her Wandering going.
The singer continued, from the other side of the room, in the same vein as the first stanza. The King asked for the Lord's help a second time, and the Lord obliged with even more obsequiousness. In one line the Lord asks leave to lave the King's fruits in his bowl. The crowd howled at that.
Jocelyn supposed whoever wrote this thought themselves very witty. The smallfolk loved songs about nobles behaving foolishly, just so long as the tale was clever enough that no particular Lord would view it as treason. Still, Jocelyn wondered. The parallels…
Jocelyn shook her head. She had spent too much time with Widow Dustin, and it was making her look at everything with suspicion. A singer from White Harbor had no reason to make a song to undermine the Starks.
It was this place, she decided, and not for the first time. This place was getting to her. The Barrowlands were unlike the great forest they bordered. They were a domain of farm, and pasture, and death. The barrows themselves were cold things. Not the cold of ice, or snow: the cold that preserves, that clarifies, that strips away artifice and leaves purity behind. No, the barrows were the cold of slow decay, of homes neither lived in nor abandoned to rejoin the wild, of something that should be hot and fast but instead slowly dissolved into filth.
It was the cold of creeping death.
Even away from the barrows the land here felt wrong to her. It was the largest stretch of uninterrupted farmland in the North, stretching from the sea all the way near to Winterfell. In the middle of it Jocelyn felt lost. The parts near enough to a river were all divided up into homesteads, long strips stretching away from the banks. The land outside of that was taken up by large pastures where the horses that Barrowton was famous for were raised. Nothing was left wooded, and it made the sky feel both too large and too close, somehow.
Elina couldn't even travel with her here. The giant bear spooked the farm animals, and if horses running away were bad, the dogs who would try to attack were even worse. Jocelyn knew how a fight between a few dogs and a fully-grown mountain bear would end, but try as she might she couldn't get that truth to stick inside the stupid minds of the hounds. Better Elina stay in the Barrow Hall godswood, even if the weirwitches there spoiled her shamelessly and the bear had grown so round this past year that Jocelyn believed there wasn't a scale in the North that could measure her. She missed the bear's steady presence beside her and comforting warmth at night.
It all put Jocelyn on edge. It was easy enough to skinchange into horses, or sheep or cattle for that matter, but the animals' minds were just— wrong. They were subservient, scared, utterly dependent on their human masters.
Trying to know the farms was even worse, and the one time Jocelyn did it she promptly vomited. It felt to her like every cycle around her was broken, spinning off into death.
"That is because they are," Osha had told her, years ago. "Almost everything on this farm—the stalks of grain, the livestock, the gardens—would die within a season if people did not tend to it."
This, then, Osha had explained, was the eternal struggle of the servants of the gods: to know that truth came from the forest, but that the farm was necessary. That without the support of grain and horse, the Andals would sweep over these lands until there was no forest at all.
The knowledge didn't make it any more pleasant to be here.
But, as Widow Dustin pointed out when she asked Jocelyn if she might accompany her, the Barrowlands were full of people faithful to the gods, and they deserved the attention of the gods' servants just as much as the people of Deepwood Motte or Bear Island did.
The inn roared with laughter around her, shaking Jocelyn out of her reverie. The Lord in the song had just offered to hold the King's sword for him, and the singer jumped back and forth as he alternated between an exaggerated bass rumble he used to voice the king and a falsetto he sang the Lord's lines with.
And here, you'll need my sheath to hold my sword
But nay, your grace, I'm pleased if you use mine
But what of your sword, will't lay on the floor?
Oh yes, your Grace, the floor will suit just fine.
Jocelyn rested her head on her hand and sipped her ale. She was supposed to be declaiming one of the ancient poems here. Widow Dustin had been teaching her a few that were particular to the Barrowlands—and at the same time teaching her to understand why a particular poem might speak more to one people than to another.
The one she had practiced for this trip, for instance, spoke of wolves. It spoke of how some of the wolf packs of the Wolfwood had become corrupted by the demons of the far north ("or the demons of the south," Widow Dustin had whispered, "but only sing that version if you're sure of the audience") and had began attacking the worshippers of the Great Wolf and their herds. It spoke of how the Great Wolf cast the corrupted wolves out of the forest and charged His warriors with their destruction.
"Now," Widow Dustin had asked, "why would this song be important to the horse breeders of the Barrowlands?"
By this point in what she had increasingly thought of as her apprenticeship, Jocelyn had begun to be able to follow Widow Dustin's lines of thinking.
"Because," Jocelyn had said, as she slowly gathered her thoughts, "wolves are sacred, but the herders need to kill them sometimes to keep the horses safe. This poem tells them that the Great Wolf still approves."
Widow Dustin had given her a small smile then, a rare sign of approval. It had been one of their last lessons together.
Tonight, though, Jocelyn thought that even pandering to local traditions wouldn't appeal to this crowd. They were far too far in their cups, and not in the mood for anything other than laughter, and mayhaps drunken dancing to some lively tune while they pawed at whatever flesh they could see and the wenches dodged.
Jocelyn despaired. From beginning to end her Wandering had not fallen out as she had imagined it would.
Officially, the Wandering was supposed to be an opportunity for acolytes to become used to traveling under their own authority for a time, before they performed the skjoldmada and committed themselves irrevocably to the gods. But for the first dozen moons and more of hers, Jocelyn felt that she had merely traded one mentor for another.
She couldn't complain, exactly. Widow Dustin was very different from Osha, but that difference meant she had much to teach. As the patron of the Winterfell preosthad, the truths she taught were much more… political than the ones Osha imparted. Jocelyn could see the value in them, though. In fact, at times she wondered why Widow Dustin, who had the ear of every Lord in the south and central parts of the North, was spending so much time teaching one acolyte.
"Don't be a fool," Widow Dustin had snapped when Jocelyn gave this wonder voice. "Bastard or no, the daughter of the Chosen will be a person of influence as long as the Starks hold Winterfell."
It shocked Jocelyn, to view herself as a person of influence, like Robb with his castle and soldiers or Lady Stark with her army of stewards. But, she thought, if people were determined to look at her that way she had better at least learn how to deal with it.
And so the lessons had continued. How to size up a hold and determine who the stewards and steadholders looked to to make decisions–Jocelyn's very first lesson was that this wasn't always the Lord. How to get people to talk about their complaints–and Jocelyn was amazed, even now, how quickly an open face and a silence to fill would pull up secrets like fish from a lake. How to see through those complaints to what the issue at the root was–Widow Dustin maintained that much of the time the folk complaining didn't even know themselves what it really was they disliked.
That was all before, though. Before the news had come from the Dreadfort: Lord Bolton, dead at the hands of his guardsmen, and Domeric now the new Lord of the Dreadfort. Jocelyn hadn't realized Widow Dustin was so close to her goodbrother, but his death was a cursed arrow that seemed to have found a gap in armor Jocelyn had believed impenetrable.
Before, Widow Dustin had been a whirlwind of activity, constantly moving from one hold to the next. She spoke graciously and effortlessly with Lord and steadholder, goði and acolyte, each one getting her full attention as she called them by name and seemed to know all of their troubles and exactly what they should do to solve them.
She had dragged Jocelyn along in her wake, and Jocelyn could only despair at ever gaining the complete mastery of the people in her domain that Widow Dustin held so lightly.
But now Widow Dustin seemed distracted, distraught, and content with staying in Barrow Hall. She had barely even gone into Barrowton the past moon.
Jocelyn had rattled around Barrow Hall like a loose seed in a gourd, sick with her own worry, or else spent hours brushing Elina's hair simply for something to do. She hadn't had word from Ramsay since the start of her wandering. Osha had encouraged them to keep separate, claiming that they would learn more without the familiar friendship to lean on. And now Jocelyn had no way of finding Ramsay, or even of knowing if she was near the Dreadfort or in some other part of the North. She knew Ramsay spoke little of her Lord Father, but surely she must feel some grief at his passing.
But Jocelyn had no way of knowing.
Finally, at the fear of going mad if she stayed still any longer, and with the time for her own skjoldmada approaching, Jocelyn had taken to wandering by herself—which, she supposed was supposed to be what happened on an acolyte's Wandering. As far as she could tell, Widow Dustin hadn't noticed.
Which was how she had come to be here, in a tiny, crowded, ramshackle inn in a nameless market a half-day's walk from the walls of Barrowton, listening to what were becoming increasingly blatant allusions to how much this nameless Lord wanted his King's cock.
The singer by the hearth finally finished up his bawdy ballad. The King asked for the Lord's help the third time, and this time when the Lord rode to help, the King finally gave the Lord what he wanted—but the King had grown so fat he crushed the Lord to death beneath him, and the Lord's lands were divided up and given to others.
For once, the King he called, the Lord he came,
For twice, he brought his men arrayed for war,
But thrice, the King took all the Lord could give,
His lands, all blown and barren, could not live.
The singer bowed, and for a moment an ominous silence filled the room. Jocelyn felt a foreboding, like a physical presence running cold fingers down her scalp. The rest of the song had been rather silly, and harmless, but the ending—it sounded a lot like a warning. A warning, to Lords who were too ready to leave their lands and travel afar at the behest of their King…
Then one of the drunks shouted for a another song, and the singer pulled out his fiddle and obliged. Soon the room was full of noise again, with clapping and tables slapped and dancing.
Jocelyn tried to put the ballad out of her mind. It had nothing to do with her Lord Father. The Starks were secure in Winterfell. She tried to put Ramsay, and Lord Bolton, and Widow Dustin out of her mind.
She had her skjoldmada to think about.
Jocelyn still had not decided what form hers would take. After all the mystery, all the years with Ramsay trying to wheedle it out of Osha, when she was finally sat down for the traditional revelation, it was frustratingly vague.
"You offer yourself as a sacrifice," was how Elder Ealhswith, the senior weirwitch of Barrowton described it, "and you ask for a boon." The Elder was a wizened woman who had seen more than a dozen winters. It was tradition that the oldest member of the local preosthad instructed the acolytes who were ready on what to expect for their skjoldmada.
"How— how do I do that?" Jocelyn had asked.
"That is between you and the gods," had been the reply. "Some offer blood. Some offer a part of themselves - a finger, say, or an ear." Jocelyn had noticed members of the preosthad missing such things, but she had never paid it any mind; in a land as harsh as the North such injuries were common.
"Some weirwitches offer their maidenhead, or even to carry a child to dedicate to the gods," Elder Ealhswith continued. Jocelyn felt herself blush. "None of that now!" the Elder cried, catching Jocelyn's reaction. "Never be ashamed of a gift to the gods! Whether that is your sacrifice or no, you'll soon be teaching the younger girls and blessing marriage beds."
Jocelyn bowed her head in apology, and the Elder's face softened. "I know you are young, yet," she said kindly. "But look at me." She put her hand under Jocelyn's chin and raised her head to look her in the eye. "Shame comes from demons. It comes from the South. There is no shame in the Forest. The gods may ask of you sacrifices that will be painful, or uncomfortable. They may ask you to feel the pinch of hunger or the bite of frost. But there is never, ever, cause to be ashamed in the service of the gods. Do you hear me?"
Jocelyn nodded her head, taken aback by the Elder's vehemence. The old woman settled back into her instruction.
"What matters is that you offer a sacrifice that will stay with you for the rest of your life, as the rest of your life is dedicated to the gods."
"And what boon does one ask of the gods?" Jocelyn had asked.
"That too is between you and the gods," Elder Ealhswith had answered, this time with a kindly laugh. "Child, when you are ready, you will know."
"And then," Jocelyn had mused, "my life will be dedicated to the gods." Elder Ealhswith had only smiled at at that, a sad smile that made Jocelyn think the old woman saw more than she said.
That last part made Jocelyn think back to that day, all those years ago, when she had asked her Lord Father, worried, whether she was committing her life to the preosthad. She still wasn't certain how she felt about the fact that he hadn't been totally honest with her.
There had never been a decision, Jocelyn had realized. Simply the long living of her childhood, which, as the years passed, had made the decision for her.
Jocelyn kept her seat at the rough-hewn table, the men around her got up to stomp their feet, clap and dance, ale raining down from shaking hands until Jocelyn's hair matched her sticky tunic. Jocelyn sat through it all, as if she was watching the revelry in a dream.
Hours passed, and the songs wound down and the fire burned low, and Jocelyn lay down for sleep on a straw mattress pushed hard against the wall of the common room. (Sleeping on straw! Another oddity of these Barrowlanders.) She slipped into Elina's mind one last time. She saw the glowing starlight bathe the godswood, and felt Elina's contented memory of her evening honeycomb.
At least one of us is happy, Jocelyn thought.
As she chased sleep, Jocelyn made a decision. She would walk back to Barrowton in the morning, and give herself the length of the walk to determine what boon she would ask the gods, and what she would offer in sacrifice. Feeling grounded for having made a plan, Jocelyn drifted to sleep on the uncomfortable mattress.
Jocelyn made it to Barrowton without deciding on her skjoldmada.
The day after was hot, and the small bath of cold water Jocelyn had taken before setting out had not gotten the ale out of either her clothes or her hair, so she was sweaty, and sticky, and soon the dust from the harvesting made her itchy as well.
It was not conducive to making major life decisions.
Tonight, Jocelyn thought. Tonight I will sit in the godswood with Elina and pray to the gods, and they will guide me.
But when Jocelyn finally arrived at Barrow Hall, she found it a hive of activity. Servants were rushing about, packing travel stores, while a hostler was tending to the cart Widow Dustin used when she left Barrowton.
In the center of it all stood Widow Dustin herself. Her old activity had returned, and she was directing her host as if the past moons had never happened.
Jocelyn tried to ask a steadholder as he rushed by, but ignored her in his hurry. Finally she made her way through the yard, close enough for Widow Dustin to spot her.
"Lord Arryn has died," Widow Dustin said as she met Jocelyn's eye. The light in her face was back, if anything more intense than ever. "And the King rides for Winterfell."
Jocelyn felt a cold feeling, starting in her stomach and spreading pins and needles over her skin.
For once, the King he called, the Lord he came,
It's all the rage in White Harbor, the singer had said
For twice, he brought his men arrayed for war,
And across the North
But thrice, the King took all the Lord could give,
And even south of the Neck people are singing it, he'd said
His lands, all blown and barren, could not live.
In a flash of insight Jocelyn knew. She knew the boon she would ask the gods. And what she was willing to offer in return.