A Vow Without Honor

The Sacking

Myra

He'd dragged her into the darkness as she screamed and kicked, but his body was like a rock that would no budge no matter how she protested. She could feel the cold steel of his blade against her neck, and the pain as it began to cut into her skin, but she did not care. Slicing her throat open was preferable to what he wanted to do.

Her eyes found Jaime's one last time. How frightened and angry they looked as he watched her disappear. After all, what could he do? There was a sword to his neck, and three men to watch him. He could not help her.

The man let her go briefly. Myra tried to run, but one hand on her shoulder was all he needed to not only drag her back, but also shove her onto the ground.

Then he was on top of her.

Whatever she had felt before was nothing compared to the panic that rose within her now. She felt his hand on her thigh, reaching upward to find the hem of her leggings.

"No! Let me go!" she cried, kicking and thrashing.

That was when he punched her.

"Quiet, bitch!"

The world was a blur. She couldn't hear anything, save for the sound of her rapid breathing. Something was tugging at her, and then she felt the fabric of her tunic give way, the cold, evening air rushing to her exposed skin. Her eyes turned to the man, his face twisted and ugly, breath foul, smile grotesque as he moved one hand to his breeches and the other back to her legs.

And suddenly, the fear was gone, or rather, replaced. There was an anger in her now, an indignation rising up inside, ready to explode. She was Myra Stark, eldest child of Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North; she was sister to Robb Stark, the King in the North. She was a woman grown, respectful and decent, who bore no ill will toward her fellow man, and she did not deserve this. No one deserved this.

How dare he.

She began to fight him again, oblivious to the second hit across her mouth; she kicked and she scratched and she screamed. There would be no quiet obedience from her, not this time.

He startled suddenly, distracted by something deeper in the cave. Myra could just barely make out the figures scuffling by the fire. Jaime was fighting back.

Myra felt the pressure lift from her body as the man moved to help the others. She watched him walk away, as if in slow motion, but she was not done with him yet. With a shout, she lashed out at him, grabbing his leg and tripped him up. A large man fell hard, and this one was slow to get up. His dagger, she noted, had tumbled from his grasp.

She raced forward, climbing over him to grab it first.

He reached for her. "What are you-"

Myra slashed his face open.

The man screamed and clutched his head. As he did so, Myra climbed on top of him. He was at her mercy now. How did it feel, she wondered. She hoped he was terrified, that he prayed to whatever gods he believed in and despaired as they said 'no.'

How dare he.

Grasping his knife with both hands, Myra swung down with all her strength, stabbing him in the chest.

It might have killed him then. There was a sickening crunch and a popping sensation as her blade dug past his ribs and well into the organs beneath. He wheezed a moment before coughing and sputtering, blood spilling past his lips. He could not survive, but she had to know.