A Vow Without Honor

The Pieces

She found it hard to recall Winterfell now, despite having lived there all her life. If Myra tried to describe what it looked like now, she might well fail. It was a dark spot at the edge of her mind's eye, imposing yet blurred, as if someone had taken a torch to her memories.

But if she thought of something she did at home, such as the time she chased Jon round the stables for ruining her good saddle, then suddenly it was returned to her: Winterfell in all its glory. Its ancient stones covered in bits of moss, the crumbling old towers, mud tracked through halls lined with melting candles larger than a child, their wax accumulating on the floor and walls. She remembered every turn, every knot in every door, which stones were loose and used by Arya to sneak treats and which footholds Bran considered to be the best, which corners were for Rickon to hide in and which were for Jon when he decided to brood without her. She remembered how warm Sansa's room was, covered in tapestries and colors, while Robb's was bare bones, as if he hardly lived there. Which was true enough, as he had usually been in her room.

Myra wondered how many happy memories Jaime had to reflect on.

"First of all, there are far too many rooms. You'll never get to them all. Just give up now before you arrive," he started, prompting her laughter. "The number of servants alone could make up a village. You'll have a small army of your own at your disposal.

"The deeper into the castle you go, the less important the rooms are. I'd suggest sticking to the ones with windows. You'll get lost otherwise. Tyrion actually disappeared half a dozen times before the age of ten, and once he'd stayed gone for an entire week and he-"

Jaime's voice halted, and the tent fell silent. He'd sounded so excited talking about his little brother, and then he'd remembered everything that had brought them here.

Myra reached up and touched his face. "What did he do?"

A ghost of a smile returned. "He'd been living out of a pantry, sneaking lemon cakes every night. We only found him because he missed the taste of meat."

His arm wrapped around her slowly, and Myra could feel him tracing circles on her skin.

"I think you'll enjoy my mother's rooms. Father gave her one of the tallest towers in the keep, with a perfect view of the Sunset Sea. I used to stand at the windows when I was a child, keeping watch for Uncle Gerion's sails."

Myra did not get the chance to ask about his uncle. Jaime drifted to sleep soon after he spoke the words. She did not mind. They had time, she told herself. They had time to figure it all out.

A little over a week after they set out, Harrenhal was looming before them, as decrepit and ominous as it had been the last time she visited. The ruins stretched out before them, an enormous skeleton jutting from the earth, burnt and broken, standing as a reminder of past glories and downfalls. The sight of it made her stomach turn.

"This is where everything went wrong, isn't it?" Myra asked quietly, watching a shadow pass over Jaime's face. She did not miss the way his good hand gripped the golden one.

"I awoke to no hand and Roose Bolton offering to send me home," he replied, glancing over to her. "He said he was off to a wedding, and I told him to send your brother my regards."

Myra gripped the reins a little tighter, looking away to the great lake in the distance, and the island that rested in the middle. The Isle of Faces, that was what they called it, where the First Men and the Children of the Forest made a pact to live in peace. Weirwoods covered the small plot of land, their faces always crying. Old Nan used to talk of the green men, and how they still guarded it.

She supposed Old Nan was gone now too. It was hard to imagine. Growing up, they'd always thought she'd outlive everyone.

"It was a joke meant at Bolton's expense, not your brother's. That much I can swear to."