A Vow Without Honor

The Desperation

Myra

Winterfell had been quiet for hours, but admittedly, Myra was just settling in to sleep. A new candle and a good book had proven difficult to escape from that evening, until it occurred to her that she had read the same sentence several times, neither comprehending the words nor the fact that she had indeed reread them. She'd curled up in bed after, the leather-bound script on the pillow beside her, and was just falling into oblivion when her ears caught the slightest creaking sound.

There had been a time when she would have jumped at such noises, but the various visits of younger siblings over the years had dulled the fear that came from strange bumps in the night. Instead, she shifted and let out a contented sigh, waiting for the inevitable dip in the bed.

It was only when nothing happened that she began to worry.

Now, Myra loved her half-brother, but the sight of Jon's brooding face staring down at her while lit by a solitary candle might have been the most terrifying thing she'd encountered in years.

When she opened her mouth to protest his, frankly, vile way of waking her, Jon slid forward and covered it with his hand, muffling her words and doing dreadful things to her attitude.

"Myra," he whispered, not bothered in the least by the profane language his large hand was blocking. "We need your help."

She calmed enough for him to remove his hand.

"We?"

Jon stepped aside, revealing Robb sitting at her writing desk. Though a small, completely guilty smile adorned his features, it was strained, and for good reason. His right hand was clutching his left arm, blood spilling out between his fingers.

"Others take you, Brother," Myra hissed, clambering out of bed and to her twin's side. "What did you do?"

"Just a little late night practice is all," Robb replied, attempting to sound jovial and failing miserably.

"Without supervision or blunted blades?"

Jon crossed the room, glancing down the hall before closing the door. "Didn't think we needed any."

"Clearly," she murmured, swatting Robb's hand away from his arm. Her fingers pulled delicately at the blood-soaked cloth that clung to his skin, revealing a cut that, while clean, went terribly deep. Though the sight of such things had never overly troubled her, she still felt herself blanche, a frown gracing her features.

"We need to take this to Maester Luwin."

Robb shook his head, taking his arm back. "We can't."

"What do you mean 'you can't'?" Myra asked, looking at her brother as if he had grown another head. Funny, it looked a lot like Jon. "This isn't something you can bind up and forget about, Brother. There is real damage here, the kind that can kill a man if he's stupid enough to not get it treated properly, which apparently you are."

"But Maester Luwin has been teaching you," Jon interjected, though he sounded thoroughly unsure of himself.

"Odds and ends, things a proper lady ought to know, not this," Myra replied, voice raised, as she gestured to Robb's limp arm. Her brothers jumped slightly at the sound. "I hem dresses, not flesh, Jon."

Robb leaned in, his voice low. "If Maester Luwin treats me, he's obligated to tell Father and Mother."

Myra met her brother's blue eyes and knew. Of course they came to her. They were desperate. If their mother found out that Jon had done that sort of damage to Robb, to Ned Stark's trueborn son, there would be a grave price to pay. It was hard enough trying to convince Jon not to take off in the dead of night and run to the Wall. If this got out, Lady Stark would all but drive him to it.