Barrow Hall was scarce noticeable at the top of the hill, while the small town built around it entirely invisible. On summer days, the slopes were presumably left open for cattle and farming, but in formidable monsoon they were abandoned. It was at the foot of Barrowton that ten thousand warriors arrived wet and wheezing at break of day, desperate for shelter from thundering rain and hail. “Keep in mind the banquets awaiting us at the top,” Davos told Jon Snow, both looking up at the grim quest that awaited them.
For all Jon had heard about the place when at Winterfell, it was the first time he had been to the Barrowlands. He had to suppose it was a place that looked beautiful in summer months. As spare streaks of sunlight broke its way through imposing clouds, the sight of melted snow and puddles filled with muck and shit did little to brighten their morning struggles.
Arya would have hated this place, Jon caught himself thinking. Then again, he realized, the Arya he knew was of many years ago, one who preferred swordplay in the mud to knitting and dancing. He would never know how she was after they left Winterfell; if her time in exile made a lady of her.
Even torrents of thundering hail had not kept her out of Jon’s mind. How can I say for certain that she died at Pyke? What if this is an excuse by Daenerys to wage this war? As the northmen trudged closer and closer to the top, hamlets and villages began getting denser. Many were awake and outside their homes, looking at marching men with more curiosity than fright.
Jon saw them with an uncertain apprehension gripping him. What if he had made the wrong choice in declaring war instead of suing for peace? Am I condemning this town to its extinction?
As it became clearer these were not men looking to attack, the villagers came closer. Jon did not know if the direwolf sigil gave it away or if Lady Barbrey Dustin kept her subjects informed, but all of a sudden, hails of King Snow! sprung from the crowd. Some tried to offer him food, while old men bowed to him like he was the personification of the old gods. It was inevitable that commoners began asking how he rose from the dead. “Word travels fast around Westeros, does it not?” Davos said with a grim chuckle.
As Jon shook hands and answered questions, trying to be king to his subjects, rain showed little signs of relent. Soon enough, the old men left for shelter underneath humble abodes, leaving behind youths and children. When one of them, as tall as Arya when Jon last saw her, begged him to be sent Daenerys Targaryen’s severed head, Jon knew lines had been crossed.
As he rode away from her mutely, resuming the arduous journey to Barrow Hall, he wondered if Lord Eddard Stark met little kids who wished for such spoils of war.
*
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