A Vow Without Honor

The Approach

Ned

When word of the boy's death came, Ned knew where to find his daughter.

There was a hill not far from their home, the highest to be found before reaching the Lonely Hills to the north. On the clearest of days, it was rumored that one could spot the sea from there, but rumors were nothing more than words, and words were wind.

Still, it was where he found Myra, astride her chestnut mare, gazing at the horizon where the Narrow Sea would not rise up for many more leagues. From a distance, and with her back to him, Ned could almost mistake her for Lyanna. She looked so much like his sister, and rode nearly as well, but that was where the similarities ended. Where Lyanna was headstrong, Myra was willing to compromise; where his sister was hot-tempered, his daughter kept her calm. She was patient, obedient, and cautious, not that she did not have her moments. She was of the North after all.

"I thought I might find you here," Ned spoke as he brought his stallion to a halt beside her.

"There never have been many places to hide."

Ned turned to her, but said nothing else. She would speak when the time was right.

Myra was his eldest, older than her twin, Robb, if only by moments, though there were times he thought years separated them. While Robb still struggled with the responsibility now resting upon his shoulders, Myra had taken to it rather well, and with all the grace a person could muster. To be honest, Ned had expected no less from her. She had burdened herself with duties to her family and to Winterfell long before it was ever required of her.

If the situation were not so grave, he might have smiled. There was no denying that Myra was his.

"Did he suffer?" she asked after some time. Myra's voice was a whisper, hardly louder than the wind. Her gaze had left the horizon and settled on the back of her mare's neck as she picked at the mane.

"I could not say. Lord Bolton made no mention of it."

He might have lied, told her the boy's death was quick and painless, but it was not in his nature, even for the sake of his children. The truth was always better. Besides which, his daughter could pick out a lie from leagues away. Some called it a gift; he called it growing up with brothers.

"I hope he did not. Domeric deserved better than that."

Ned paused. "Did you care for him?"

Myra was silent for a long time before she turned to him, her gray eyes glistening with unshed tears, skin reddened by the cold, evening air. Black strands of her hair clung to her face, but she seemed not to care.

"He promised to show me the sea on day, and teach me the harp if I wished to learn. Anything to please his lady wife, who must be so disappointed in her choice of a husband." Myra shook her head, a tear escaping. "The way he thought of himself made me sad, but he was sweet and gentle. I do believe I will miss him."

Nodding grimly, Ned placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder, the only comfort he could offer her on horseback. Myra rested her cheek against his fingers. He could feel her tears streak across his skin.

His daughter was a gentle soul, prone to empathize with even the hardest of characters. She wept for those she hardly knew and sought to comfort many deemed unworthy of such kindness. Truthfully, it made him worry. There were many lords who would have liked to take advantage of someone like her. And for all her strength, Ned could not be certain whether or not she would crumble in the house of a lord not near as kind.

"Am I to marry Ramsay now?" Myra asked, breaking the thoughtful silence. she lifted her head to look at him, eyes filled with expectation and what he might have guessed was a flicker of fear. "I know he is only a bastard, but with Lord Bolton having no heirs, the king might legitimize-"