A Vow Without Honor

The Arrival

Myra

"He should have never gone."

Myra looked to her young brother, Bran, as he played with his newfound direwolf pup in front of the hearth. His effort was only half there; his mind was somewhere else.

All the Stark children had gathered in the Great Hall, to include Jon, with their little pets in tow. Sansa sat at one of the tables, tying a bow around the neck of hers. Arya was running around, trying to get her pup to fetch a stick already, though the poor thing could hardly walk without tripping over itself. Robb sat with Rickon in the back, making certain the young Stark treated his pup well. Myra and Jon sat at a different table, their own direwolves wandering about the surface.

She turned back to Jon. "He's too young."

"Robb and I were near the same age when we saw our first execution," Jon countered, blocking his albino runt from jumping off the table.

"But it's different with Bran. He's not like the two of you."

And it was true. Bran was always a happy child, summer in its purest form, but in the span of a few hours, he had aged drastically, and it broke her heart. She wanted to take him and hide him from the world, as selfish as it sounded.

"If he wants to be a knight like in those tales of his, he'll have to learn. You know Father's words."

Myra sighed. "Winter is coming."

She had never liked their house words much. They always hinted at terrible things on the horizon. Nothing good came to the North without mention of them. It took the beauty and wonder out of it all and left a cold, empty feeling in its wake. It was no wonder the rest of Westeros thought them a cold people. There appeared to be no escaping it.

Grabbing her pup, Myra made her way over to the hearth, sitting just across from Bran. Her direwolf was a little bundle of gray fur with the brightest blue eyes she had ever seen. The little creature would yip and attempt to dig into the layers of her dress. It made her smile; it was hard to believe such a tiny thing could turn into the great direwolves of legend.

"Have you got a name for yours?"

Myra looked up at Bran with a smile. "I think...Brenna might do for her."

Bran arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with her choice. "Brenna?"

"Yes, Brenna," Myra repeated, lowering the pup to the floor. It began to sniff at the stone, occasionally glancing at the fire, wariness in its eyes. "We had an old hound named that, before you were born. She lurked around the stables, keeping an eye on things. Caught her fair share of thieves in her day. This little pup keeps her siblings in line, just like that hound."

She watched Bran follow the pup's movements, noting the streaks of light that ran through the fur, shimmering in the firelight. It was like the old gods had given her living metal.

"I think it's silly."

"Oh? And what great name have you given yours?"

Bran looked at her sheepishly. "He doesn't have one. Every name I think of doesn't stick. Maybe he's better off that way. Probably won't even survive."

Myra frowned, inwardly cursing the man who came down from the Wall and made her brother have to witness his execution. He'd stolen all the warmth out of Bran.

"That is the way of the world," she admitted, bringing Brenna back to her lap. "Some live, some die."

No one said anything for a while, and the Great Hall fell silent, save for the crackle of the fire and little growls. Rickon had fallen asleep, curled up with his pup. Robb had backed away and appeared to be whispering to Theon, who had snuck in with a rather glum attitude. Sansa and Arya were sitting together, not bickering with one another for the first time in ages.