Chapter 2.2: Familial Bonds
Jocelyn Stark
The godswood was quiet, the heart tree’s red leaves drooping, like they’d soaked up too much cold air. Jocelyn sat against its trunk, knees hugged close, fingers picking at a loose thread in her sleeve—Father said the Old Gods listened here, their eyes in the weirwood, watching over Starks. On her walk over, she’d seen a soldier rush through the gate, his horse lathering, the man mud-caked and hollow-eyed. It set her stomach twisting, and she hurried to the heart tree. She’d asked the tree for Father to come home—pressed her palm to its white bark, hoping—but the air stayed still, the leaves limp. Her breath puffed out, a small cloud, and she hugged herself harder—
Alysanne’s boots crunched slowly over pine needles, her shadow falling soft across the dirt. She stopped a few paces off, hands wringing in her cloak, her breath hitching like she’d run from the keep. Jocelyn looked up—her aunt’s grey eyes were red, tears streaking her cheeks, and her mouth trembled. “What’s the matter, Aunt Alys?” Jocelyn asked, voice small, the knots in her stomach coiled tighter as she untangled her legs to stand. She stepped closer, reaching out———but Alysanne shook her head, a sob breaking free. “Jocelyn,” she whispered, voice low and shaky, “your father—he’s…” She faltered, swallowing hard, eyes squeezing shut for a heartbeat. “He’s fallen—at Long Lake.”
Jocelyn blinked, brow scrunching—”
What do you mean, fallen?” she asked tilting her head like when Edwyle explained a riddle she didn’t get. Long Lake was far, cold—Father’d gone with his banners, he said some bad man was attacking people, “he promised her, his loud laugh echoing out in the great hall. “Did he trip? Is he hurt?” Her hands dropped to her sides, thread forgotten—Alysanne’s tears kept falling, her grip tightening on Jocelyn's arm, and that felt wrong. “Aunt Alysanne?” she pressed, voice rising, she could feel her thudding heart in her throat.
Alysanne knelt, slow, like the air was heavy, and pulled Jocelyn close, hands shaking. “No, sweetling,” she said, voice breaking now. “He’s—he’s dead. Wildlings took him—he’s not coming back.” The words cracked sharp, like a branch snapping, and Jocelyn’s breath caught, then burst. Sobs tore out, loud and messy, as she crumpled into Alysanne’s arms, fingers digging into wool. “No—no—he promised—he’d come back!” she wailed, face pressed to her aunt’s shoulder, tears soaking through. Alysanne rocked her, grip fierce, her own voice rising— “The North remembers, and so will they.” Her anger burned through the sobs, a vow Jocelyn barely heard—Father’s laugh, deep and warm, flickered and died in her head.
The wind picked up, a low hum threading through the godswood—the heart tree’s leaves shivered, red against white, and a single one drifted down, brushing Jocelyn’s hair. A chill crept over her arms, cold like a whisper she couldn’t hear, a faint wolf's howl echo, pained and cut short. She didn’t look up—didn’t feel it, didn't hear it—her world drowned in the dark of her crying, the cold just another ache.
She pulled back, gasping— He’d make it better—like when she had a nightmare and he told her stories of the age of heroes ‘til the shadows shrank. She needed that—his arm around her, his voice soft. Her hands shook, wiping her nose on her sleeve—Alysanne’s tear-streaked face blurred as Jocelyn stumbled up, legs wobbly, and ran for the keep.
Her boots echoed through Winterfell’s stone corridors, breath rasping in short, ragged gasps as she ran. Her chest ached, tears still burning, and she needed Edwyle—his voice to steady the world Father’s death had shattered. The keep loomed colder, emptier without Father, but Edwyle was still here. She needed him now, more than ever, and she clung to him in her mind as she veered toward the library.
As she neared the archway, slowing to wipe her tear-streaked face with her sleeve, Luwin stepped out, Maester Rodrick’s young assistant, his arms burdened with scrolls and a small bundle of dried herbs. A few years her senior, his grey robe hung loose on his lanky frame, flapping as he adjusted his load. They weren’t friends—such familiarity wasn’t proper—but they’d shared quiet hours in the library, him poring over texts while she sneaked glances at old tales of the North.
“Luwin,” she called, her voice thick and unsteady. “Have you seen my brother?”
He glanced up, eyes softening at her disheveled state. “He’s in the Lord’s solar with Maester Rodrick,” Luwin said, tucking the scrolls under his arm. “I was just there—brought these after your uncle’s message came.” He nodded at the herbs, their faint scent wafting out. “The Maester thought he might need them, but Lord Edwyle waved me off. Said there was no time for that, not with the work to do.”
Jocelyn’s brow creased, confusion cutting through her grief. “Herbs? For what?”
Luwin fidgeted, uneasy, eyes on his bundle. “I reckon Maester Rodrick thought he might be shaken. But Lord Edwyle seemed… steady. More set on reviewing the ledgers than anything else.”
A sharp pang stabbed in Jocelyn’s chest. Father was dead—how could he be ? She swallowed hard, forcing a thin smile. “Thank you, Luwin.”
He nodded, a flicker of unease in his eyes, then hurried off down the hall, his footsteps echoing off the stone. Jocelyn stood rooted, her mind spinning. Edwyle was supposed to be grieving, as broken as her. He was supposed to be here, with her, not buried in counts and ledgers. Something felt wrong—nameless. She turned toward the solar passage, her steps slower now, the hope she’d grasped slipping like smoke through her fingers.
The solar door loomed ahead, heavy oak shut tight, firelight seeping from beneath. Torren and Garth stood guard, hulking in grey wool, swords at their belts. Torren’s eyes softened as she approached, pity creasing his weathered face, while Garth shifted, his beard twitching with a quiet sigh. She pressed her ear to the wood between them, catching the low murmur inside—Rodrick’s hoarse rasp, “The map’s five years old, my lord—and the census, ten, from the last summer’s start under your father,” and Edwyle’s calm reply, “Way too old. Commission a new one—here, I’ll list what I need.” A quill scratched, steady and sharp, no hitch of sorrow, no trace of tears. Her chest tightened, anger sparking alongside the hurt. She crouched, peering through the keyhole—Edwyle sat at the desk, facing her through the narrow slit, his face blank, no red in his eyes, no grief pulling at his mouth. That easy smile she loved, the one that crinkled his cheeks when he’d tease her, was gone—just a hard line now, focused on the parchment.
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Torren cleared his throat, voice gruff but gentle. “Want me to call him out, M’lady?” Jocelyn froze, her breath catching—grief welled up, heavy and raw, confusion muddling her thoughts, but anger burned hottest, a fire swallowing the rest. She shook her head, fists clenching, and stomped away, boots slamming stone as tears blurred the hall. The thought sliced deep. The brother she knew would have sought her out by now, would have held her until the world steadied again. But this—talk of censuses and coin while she broke apart—wasn’t him.
The dining hall felt too big after Edwyle left, the oak table stretching empty save for the bowls of cold stew and torn bread. Jocelyn slumped in her chair, her hands sticky with broth she hadn’t bothered to wipe off. He’d walked out—now—off to Wintertown like Father’s death was just another task finished, his voice still ringing in her ears about boiling water and hauling shit. She’d yelled, her throat still raw from it. Shouting wasn’t her way, least of all at Edwyle, yet no barb she hurled—nor any mention of Father—cracked his maddening calm. The hearth flickered low, spitting embers, but the warmth didn’t touch her.
Alysanne stayed, her spoon resting idle in her bowl, her grey eyes fixed on Jocelyn. The silence hung thick until she sighed, soft and worn. “Jocelyn,” she said, voice gentle but frayed, “he’s not turning his back on you. He’s lord now—and the North needs him. He’s doing what he must.”
Jocelyn’s fists clenched, nails bitting into her palms. “Must?” she snapped, her voice sharp and shaky. “Father’s dead—not even a day—and he’s fussing over middens like it’s nothing! The Edwyle I know would’ve—” She stopped, chest heaving, the words tangling. She glared at the table, at Father’s empty chair. “He didn’t even sit in his chair—took Father’s like it was always his.”
Alysanne’s brow creased, her hand reaching across the table, hovering but not touching. “He’s grieving in his own way,” she said, softer now. “You saw him this morning—he’s been at it since the message came, burying himself in work. It’s how he’s keeping steady. Remember how he’d pace the yard after a fight with your father, swinging that sword ‘til his hands bled? He’s always been like that—keeps it inside.”
Jocelyn’s jaw tightened, her eyes flicking up. “No,” she muttered, voice low and bitter. “He’s different. He didn’t pace today—he sat there, calm, like Father was some old story. And his hands—” She faltered, a memory snagging—Edwyle twisting his ring, that iron wolf’s head he’d fidget with when he was upset. “He’s not keeping it inside—he’s not feeling it at all.”
Alysanne leaned back, her lips parting, then closing. “He’s… changed, yes,” she admitted, slow, like she was testing the words. “Loss does that. But he’s still your brother, Jocelyn—he’ll come ‘round. Give him time.”
“Time?” Jocelyn shoved her chair back, the scrape loud against the stone. “He’s had all day to care, but he’s off playing lord instead!” She stood, trembling, her eyes stinging again. The differences piled up, small but sharp—his steady voice, his still hands, his missing grin. “He’s not acting like himself, Aunt Alys—I don’t know what’s with him.” She turned, stomping toward the door, Garth’s pitying glance trailing her as she fled the hall, anger drowning the ache in her chest.
The Great Hall’s doors still echoed in her ears as Jocelyn shoved through the oak gate into the godswood, its hinges groaning shut behind her with a thud that sealed out the world. Her boots squelched into the damp carpet of needles and moss, the air thick with pine and the faint warmth of the hot springs—Father’s place once. She’d stormed out, Uncle Artos’ rough growl—“summon Musgood or burn the savages out”—clashing with Edwyle’s calm, like he could tally Father’s death away on some merchant’s slate. Her chest shuddered, breath fogging in the chill, and she stumbled toward the weirwood, its bone-white trunk twisting up through the muted greens, blood-red leaves trembling against a bruised grey sky. The carved face gazed down, mournful eyes oozing sap—scarlet tears plinking into the dark pool below, rippling its stillness. Her own eyes leaked salty tears, mirroring a similar path down her cheeks, falling quietly to the ground. —
She settled onto a moss-slick stone by the water’s edge, the cold biting through her wool dress, her hands trembling as she pressed them to her face. Uncle Artos had roared in like a tempest—mud-streaked, Father’s body swaying in that cart—tall and fierce, his voice thick with a grief she could almost grip. She'd stood near him in the hall, his shadow a steady thing as his voice rang out with talk of Wildlings and blood. He swore they’d pay for the axe that took Father, a vow she’d latched onto because it felt like justice. Her fingers curled, nails biting her palms, but the sting felt far away. Edwyle, though—he’d perched on that old seat, muttering about grain and water like Father was just a name on a list. she’d spat—eight days, and he hadn’t cried, hadn’t raged, just scribbled and fussed like some stranger. She wanted him to , to be the brother who’d laugh and pull her close, not this lord she didn’t know.
Her eyes burned, hot and wet, but she blinked them dry, glaring at the weirwood’s mournful face. The tree didn’t answer, just wept its silent red, and the quiet pressed in—too still, too deep, broken only by the rustle of leaves and a raven’s distant croak. She wanted to scream, to shake Edwyle ‘til the brother she knew came back—the one who’d taught her how to use a knife, grinning as he’d parry her clumsy swings, calling her “Joss” with that lopsided smirk. Not this… stranger, who sat calm while Artos raged, who chose shit carts than their Father’s memory.
Something drew her gaze—a stick by the pool’s edge, whittled but rough, no shape to it, half-hidden in the moss. She reached for it, fingers brushing damp earth, and pulled it close. Edwyle used to sit here, carving wolves when Father’s words stung him—little wooden offerings he’d tuck by the tree, silent prayers she’d find later. This was different—jagged, unfinished, tossed aside like it didn’t matter. Not a wolf, not a prayer, just a broken thing. She turned it over, splinters pricking her skin, and her chest ached.
She dropped the stick, letting it roll back to the moss, and stood, pacing to the pool’s edge. The black water mirrored the weirwood’s red leaves, a dark smear of blood against the grey, and she stared at it, her reflection trembling. “What’s happening to you?” she whispered, voice cracking, half to the tree, half to the brother she couldn’t reach. Her jaw clenched, hands balling at her sides—a cold ache settled in her bones, heavy and sharp.
The wind stirred, rustling the red leaves, and the weirwood’s sap dripped louder, a steady plink against the water. She turned away, boots crunching back toward the gate, the stick resting where she’d left it. Father would rest in the crypts tonight, with Uncle Artos to see it done, but Edwyle—he was slipping into something she couldn’t grasp, a stranger where her brother should be. she thought, the ache hardening into a knot she could carry. The godswood receded behind her, silent as ever, its red eyes weeping for secrets she didn’t yet hold.
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