A Vow Without Honor

The Breath

Myra

The godswood of Riverrun was a thing of beauty. Sunlight drifted lazily through the open canopies above, and a small breeze was ever present, not a cold thing, but enough to keep the air from being too still. A variety of trees crowded the area, all focused at the heart of the sanctuary: the weirwood.

It wasn't like home, she thought, where Winterfell's great heart tree towered over everything else, its blood red leaves blanketing the area and leaving it in a constant sort of darkness. There, it had a presence, large and foreboding, but constant and strong. Here, the heart tree of her mother's godswood felt more like the other trees around it, pretty but unassuming. The face carved into its trunk seemed kinder as well.

Even their trees suffered in the embrace of the South.

Still, it was better than nothing. In King's Landing, she'd gone to the godswood once, some time in the first week, when her mind still swam at the immensity of it all, and the troubles of her family had not been quite so entwined with Southern politics. She vaguely recalled finding the godswood there just as unimpressive, as large as it was. It was louder there, full of little insects that made peculiar sounds, and had clearly been the victim of overly curious and passionate nobles. She'd lost interest in going again even before the trouble started.

Myra knelt before the tree, feeling the cold of the earth seep into her skirts. She closed her eyes, taking a moment to listen to the soft trickle of the stream nearby and the distant call of a bird. How peaceful it felt, here in the middle of a war.

And then she began to pray.

She prayed that Arya would remain safe, wherever she was, and that Nymeria made it to her.

She prayed Sansa still lived, and had found shelter somewhere in the world.

She prayed for Jory, lost in the war as well.

She prayed for the souls lost in Winterfell, that in death they may find the peace that life had robbed them of.

And, in the end, she prayed for Jaime. The old gods, she thought, might not care to hear such words for a man of his nature, but she'd not heeded anyone for him thus far, why should she stop now?

Let him be safe, she thought. Let him go home.

Her words were silent, for they were for the gods alone. Many Northerners scoffed at the idea of praying out loud to the Seven, as if the words were more for those around to hear rather than the gods themselves. It seemed much of the Faith of the Seven focused on pomp and ceremony. She recalled more than one septon garbed in far finer things than many of the lords they preached to.

No wonder Jaime hadn't any faith in such things.

He might have liked the old gods though, except, perhaps, for the tree part.

No, he would have made a terrible joke straight into the weirwood's face.

The thought made her smile.

Myra opened her eyes to the unchanged face, wondering if the gods had a sense of humor, or if they were like the lords who served them, quiet, dark, and as unyielding as the winter winds. If they did, it may not have been the kind that those so far beneath them would care for. Life and death and sickness and war were just pieces in a game far grander than theirs.

The breeze picked up, carrying a small, red leaf into her lap.

"Maester Luwin always said that the wind through the leaves of the weirwood were the gods speaking to us," Robb's voice called from behind her. Myra turned to see him standing there, for once not armored, though his sword still hung by his side. "I asked him if he could translate for us, and he laughed."