A Vow Without Honor

The Traitor

Myra

Winterfell was at its finest when visitors were expected.

The castle teemed with life, servants and guards seeming to appear out of the woodwork for surely there were never so many people before. But despite the tight quarters, everyone deftly moved about one another, possessing an intuition of where the flow of traffic would go. Unless Arya and Bran were chasing one another about the halls again. Then no one was safe.

Myra watched the ebb and flow, fascinated. Though she would likely find the floating motes of dust as attractive if it meant not focusing on what the castle was preparing for.

Lord Bolton was expected that evening, and by tomorrow, Myra would be a woman betrothed.

So, she had taken to the Great Hall, to watch and to wait. No one spoke to her. Not a single servant even stopped to glance, as if they all knew the pressure mounting within her and wanted to give her space. She wanted the very opposite, in fact, and had come to the hall specifically for human interaction, but her tongue refused to work and no words came to mind.

Would someone talk to her please?

Hearing her silent conflict, a warm hand wrapped around hers.

"When I was first betrothed to Brandon, I nearly wore the carpet out with my pacing," her mother said softly, sitting beside her. "I did manage to blister my feet, and I met your uncle while my heels were bleeding."

Myra tried to smile, but it would not stay. "What was he like?"

Catelyn pursed her lips, thinking. She wondered if asking her was an offense to her father.

"Brandon was everything your father isn't. Boisterous, impulsive, hot-tempered. If the two of them were in the same room, you'd forget your father was there. That was how much of a presence he had."

Myra wondered if she would have liked him, but she was told she liked everyone.

"And did you like him?"

Her mother smiled softly. "I was certainly attracted to him, but there have been many girls over many centuries who have been attracted to boys they will never marry. What I had with your father was not an idyllic start, but I would not trade my life with him for the world, nor mine with you."

Reaching out, Catelyn held her face, wiping her thumb over her cheek like she had when she was a little girl.

"The man you will marry will love you, and you will love him. That much I know. And if the gods deem you worthy of their cruelty, then I will be there for you."

. . .

The rains had soaked through her dress in an instant, but Myra could not feel the freezing water as it drenched her hair and skin. She could not hear their attackers as they trailed them out of the camp, expertly hidden by the darkness and the storm. She could not feel Jaime's hand upon her arm, only allowed so they could sneak out for appearances, should anyone catch them - no one did. Her mind had emptied, focused on a singular sentence that was uttered.

To your lady mother, of course.

Her mother was dead. She had seen the body, and the pool of blood beneath her. She had seen the bolt that she had taken prior to her fall. The Freys had dumped her in the river, that was what their maester said.

Catelyn Stark was dead.

Then who were they being led to?

Their attackers closed ranks as soon as they reached the treeline, resting beside the flooded Tumblestone. They'd lost sight of the camp long before, and in the pitch darkness, it was unlikely anyone could spot them now. Still, they continued to walk, quietly, mud squelching beneath their feet. Myra grabbed Jaime's hand and squeezed it tightly. If she held on, they couldn't take him, or so she told herself.