A Vow Without Honor

The Loss

A/N: Hello everyone! Sorry you don't hear much from me on here. Know that I do appreciate every one of your views, votes, and comments. I just don't use this site very often as FF.net is where I started and probably where I'll die. Please feel free to message me there with questions, or follow the link to my blog and send me an ask! I'm always open to questions or conversation. Just be warned, there are spoilers for the most recent chapters of AVWH.

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Thank you! Now on to the chapter!

Myra

In the wake of everything she had been through, a funeral seemed an odd thing. It was a breath in the middle of a war, and not an altogether welcome one at that. For the briefest of moments, Myra could forget the horrid things outside their somber little world, but to turn her head to the left or right would reveal the broken war machines from the siege of Riverrun at the beginning of it all. The scars would remain for years, and serve as a reminder that all things changed.

Myra watched the banner of House Tully blow gently in the breeze, giving the silly little impression that the trout was swimming. Robb had made fun of the rather unintimidating sigil once, and in return was given a thorough history lesson on the house, courtesy of their mother and Maester Luwin.

Family. Duty. Honor.

She supposed she'd gotten that order completely wrong.

Seven trusted lords, in honor of the seven new gods, pushed Lord Hoster Tully's funeral boat into the river, among them Robb, and their great-uncle Brynden. Catelyn clung to her side as they did so, arm intertwined with hers, hand squeezing the feeling out of her fingers. She hadn't spoken to her in days; she hadn't spoken to anyone. It was a quiet reminder that her mother had lost so much over the course of the war, more than any of them. Her ability to stand tall in the face of that was a testament to her strength.

Their father had always said she was stronger than him.

Edmure, her grandfather's youngest child, and only son, nocked an arrow then, lighting it in the brazier beside him.

Funerals for river lords were a strange sort of ceremony, but given their livelihood and wealth was so heavily tied to the Trident, it made sense. To be forever united with the one constant in your life was a poetic end.

The arrow was drawn and loosed, an orange orb arcing its way toward the boat. Myra found herself holding her breath.

When the arrow dropped into the water, she felt her mother's hand twitch.

Edmure glanced around at them, a sort of sheepish look on his face, like that of a child, and it occurred to Myra that she was not certain precisely how much older than her he was, just that he was a good deal younger than his sisters.

She tried to give her uncle an encouraging smile – after all, how could one focus following the death of a parent? – as he returned to firing.

Another arrow found itself floating down the Trident.

Robb chuckled softly. The highborns gathered on the shoreline were glancing nervously at one another, murmuring. Her mother had gone pale.

What an omen it must have been.

When the third arrow refused to hit its mark, Brynden stepped forward with a huff, shoving his nephew aside and grabbing the weapon for himself. He took his time, judging the wind from the Tully banner flying above. His pause made her nervous. The boat already seemed too far off, threatening to round a bend and be lost; the grip on her hand echoed her mother's concerns.