A Vow Without Honor

The Trapped

Myra

Warmth: that was what she woke to. The sort that one found themselves wrapped up in on a particularly cold morning, and had a smug satisfaction upon realizing there was no real need to move from it, even as the sun rose high and the rest of the world slogged through the weather. It wrapped her from head to toe, and left her humming in delight. She hadn't slept so comfortably since King's Landing.

Her eyes fluttered open.

Even in the darkness of the tent, she could tell it was light outside. She could make out the smallest holes in the fabric, slight gaps between the canvas and the ground. Also, the bustle just beyond sounded like quite the ruckus. Boisterous laughter, steel swords scraping across one another, shouts of jest and orders and status of the cooking. She hadn't heard so much noise in one spot for an age.

In its absence, Myra had forgotten how much she enjoyed the sound – so long as she was not the center of its attention – and hummed again as she let the noise consume her until it became little more than droning in the back of her mind.

A deep chuckle brought her back.

Myra opened her eyes fully, blinking away the remnants of sleep.

Sitting in a chair beside her – how she had missed his lurking form, she had no idea – was Robb.

She'd never considered her brother to be a large man. He was fairly tall and strong, but he'd always been so scrawny, which served to make him about as intimidating as wet paper (although she had always been biased). Jon had been the larger of the two, the more dominating presence that matched his glum look, but wrapped in his cloak and armor, Robb almost appeared a giant to her now.

His blue eyes crinkled at the edges. "That's the best sleep she's gotten since you left for King's Landing."

Confused, Myra turned her head.

Lying beside her, face relaxed as she soundly slept through the day, Catelyn Stark appeared a far different person than the one she had left in Winterfell. She did not appear to be the pale, frail woman that Myra had hesitantly left alone with her ailing brother, but she was still not the same woman that she kept in her mind's eye and pictured when she felt alone at times. Even as unburdened as her brother said she was, their mother still looked older. Myra could see new worry lines on her face, and little gray hairs that had not been there before.

Of course she would look different, Myra thought. Her husband was dead, her two youngest and her home were gone.

But not me. She still has me.

She'll always have me.

Myra gently squeezed the hand that held hers under the furs.

"How long have I been asleep?"

To be honest, she could not remember much from the previous night. They had ridden into camp and were greeted by various cheers, claps, and an assortment of weaponry pounded on shields. Myra had somehow found her way into her mother's arms during the racket, and all she could recall from there were tears and unintelligible mumbling in between sobs.

"It's about midday now. I wanted to let you sleep, but...I didn't want to think you were a dream either," Robb replied, glancing around. Still terrible with his emotions. At least some things never changed. "I've needed you here, Myra. More than anyone else, I've needed you."

Easing herself out of the covers, and her mother's grasp, Myra joined her brother. This was something she could do. It wasn't attacking bandits or political discourse; it was what she had been doing all her life: helping her family. And gods, when was the last time she could say she'd done anything like that?