Myra

"He should have never gone."

Myra looked to her young brother, Bran, as he played with his newfound direwolf pup in front of the hearth. His effort was only half there; his mind was somewhere else.

All the Stark children had gathered in the Great Hall, to include Jon, with their little pets in tow. Sansa sat at one of the tables, tying a bow around the neck of hers. Arya was running around, trying to get her pup to fetch a stick already, though the poor thing could hardly walk without tripping over itself. Robb sat with Rickon in the back, making certain the young Stark treated his pup well. Myra and Jon sat at a different table, their own direwolves wandering about the surface.

She turned back to Jon. "He's too young."

"Robb and I were near the same age when we saw our first execution," Jon countered, blocking his albino runt from jumping off the table.

"But it's different with Bran. He's not like the two of you."

And it was true. Bran was always a happy child, summer in its purest form, but in the span of a few hours, he had aged drastically, and it broke her heart. She wanted to take him and hide him from the world, as selfish as it sounded.

"If he wants to be a knight like in those tales of his, he'll have to learn. You know Father's words."

Myra sighed. "Winter is coming."

She had never liked their house words much. They always hinted at terrible things on the horizon. Nothing good came to the North without mention of them. It took the beauty and wonder out of it all and left a cold, empty feeling in its wake. It was no wonder the rest of Westeros thought them a cold people. There appeared to be no escaping it.

Grabbing her pup, Myra made her way over to the hearth, sitting just across from Bran. Her direwolf was a little bundle of gray fur with the brightest blue eyes she had ever seen. The little creature would yip and attempt to dig into the layers of her dress. It made her smile; it was hard to believe such a tiny thing could turn into the great direwolves of legend.

"Have you got a name for yours?"

Myra looked up at Bran with a smile. "I think...Brenna might do for her."

Bran arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with her choice. "Brenna?"

"Yes, Brenna," Myra repeated, lowering the pup to the floor. It began to sniff at the stone, occasionally glancing at the fire, wariness in its eyes. "We had an old hound named that, before you were born. She lurked around the stables, keeping an eye on things. Caught her fair share of thieves in her day. This little pup keeps her siblings in line, just like that hound."

She watched Bran follow the pup's movements, noting the streaks of light that ran through the fur, shimmering in the firelight. It was like the old gods had given her living metal.

"I think it's silly."

"Oh? And what great name have you given yours?"

Bran looked at her sheepishly. "He doesn't have one. Every name I think of doesn't stick. Maybe he's better off that way. Probably won't even survive."

Myra frowned, inwardly cursing the man who came down from the Wall and made her brother have to witness his execution. He'd stolen all the warmth out of Bran.

"That is the way of the world," she admitted, bringing Brenna back to her lap. "Some live, some die."

No one said anything for a while, and the Great Hall fell silent, save for the crackle of the fire and little growls. Rickon had fallen asleep, curled up with his pup. Robb had backed away and appeared to be whispering to Theon, who had snuck in with a rather glum attitude. Sansa and Arya were sitting together, not bickering with one another for the first time in ages.

"Why would he do it?" Bran asked suddenly. "Everyone knows if you leave the Night's Watch, you die, so why do it?"

Myra bit her lip, thinking, stalling. "For some people, death is kinder than living."

"Why is that?"

"I couldn't say, and I hope to never find out," she paused, offering Bran a soft smile. "I can't say seeing these things will ever be easier, but you'll come to understand them, and that is all anyone can ask of you."

Bran nodded solemnly and stood. She liked to hope that his walk looked a little less burdened, but there was no way to know how anyone truly felt. She could not be certain if that was a good or bad thing.

________________________________________

The day the king arrived in Winterfell was one Myra would never be able to forget, even if she wanted to. The castle had never felt so alive. Even when they had harvest feasts, there had never been such preparations made. She supposed they were simple like that in the North, but it was Robert Baratheon who would be gracing their halls this time, not sworn swords and bannermen well accustomed to the ways of the Starks. Anything that could be done was being done, even if it made little sense and did nothing more than make something look slightly prettier.

Brenna stood calmly beside Myra, already as tall as her knee, as she fussed over her dress. They'd only had the direwolves for a fortnight, but they had grown so much in their company. Even Bran's had survived, much to his delight, although her brother still hadn't named the poor thing. 'Hey you' was the closest he had gotten to anything permanent.

The dress she wore was a deep blue, with intricate needlework around the bodice with gray threat, and made of a thick material to block out the strong winds of the North. As far as their standards went, her choice in clothing was too complicated, but Myra had heard of the elaborate pieces the women of the South like to wear. She had never thought of herself as someone who focused too much on vanity, but still she found the urge to leave a good impression too strong to resist.

Arya would be disappointed. Sansa would applaud. There never was any middle ground. Sometimes, Myra wondered how they could all possibly be related.

She braided a few strands of her hair, but for the most part left the long, black locks flowing as freely as they pleased. It was rare that Myra ever completely put her hair up. She was no fighter and did not hold the notion of becoming one, unlike Arya. It was as much a part of her outfit as her dress and shoes, and did not need to be hidden from the world.

Domeric had liked her hair down as well. She hadn't expected his ghost to have as much influence on her as he did.

"Well, what do you think?" she asked, looking down at her pup.

Blue eyes looked up at her. Brenna tilted her head this way and that, as though actually considering her question, before she yipped in what Myra could only assume was a positive response.

"You would like it. I can't recall you not liking anything of mine," Myra replied, brushing down the sides of her dress. She paused suddenly, hitting her forehead with her hand. "Gods help me, I'm actually having a conversation with an animal. Right, time to go."

Myra grabbed the cloak that hung near her door and made her way to the hall outside. She stopped just past the threshold and turned back to her room.

"Brenna, stay here."

The direwolf whined and appeared to frown, as if that was possible.

"Don't you give me that look." Myra paused, sighing. "I'm doing it again."

Finding herself running late, Myra practically bounded down the stairs and did not stop running until she had reached the postern gate, out of breath and feeling positively disheveled. Yes, she was bound to leave a wonderful impression with the royals.

"Bout time you showed up," Theon commented as she joined the gathering crowd. The Greyjoy was freshly shaven and for the first time in a while, looked to care about his appearance. "Was starting to think I'd have to drag you down myself. And who knows? You might have even enjoyed it."

Myra rolled her eyes. She had learned how to play the ward's game years ago, back when she truly believed her father would betroth them. The boy was crude, even for the North, but most things were meant in jest, a twisted sort of jest, but intended humor nonetheless. It was all a matter of stepping up to his level and beating him at it. That may have been why, out of all the Starks, she seemed to tolerate him the most. Even Robb, who treated him as a brother, had moments where he snapped.

Truly, there was a part of her that felt bad for Theon Greyjoy, a kraken forced to live with wolves, far from the sea and the isles he called home. He was a bit like Jon in that way, growing up alongside, but never truly one of them. Of course, she'd never say that out loud. Gods save the pride of young men.

She leaned in close to Theon, so only he could hear. "It's easy to think yourself a great flirt when you are the only one who practices it."

Theon snorted. "Clearly Robb doesn't tell you everything. Your twin's worse than I am."

"Whatever he's saying about me, it's a lie."

Robb and Jon approached them from the crowd. Myra had to bite on her tongue to keep from laughing, but could not help the wicked smile that formed on her face. Her brothers were not meant to be clean-shaven, that much she was certain of.

"I hadn't realized I had so many sisters," she managed to spit out before the laughter took over. Her eyes were tearing up and it was a little hard to breathe. She blamed the nerves.

Jon shook his head. "Alright, laugh it up, Myra, but you aren't exactly a wonderful sight yourself."

"Insulting a woman's looks? You're playing with fire, Snow," Theon said, eying her half-brother.

"That's rich coming from you, Greyjoy."

Robb stepped in between the two. "Enough. Of all the days to fight, this is not one of them. The king will be here any moment."

Myra nodded, bringing herself back under control. "It was just a few words. The two of you take things far too seriously."

"Didn't you hear?" Theon asked. "We're from the North. We take everything seriously."

A horn blew overhead from one of the watch towers. The king was approaching.

The courtyard fell silent almost immediately. Everyone fell into their appropriate place, which Myra found rather odd since they had never actually practiced it before. It just came as naturally as breathing she supposed, knowing where you belonged in the realm. As it were, she did not stand by Robb as some thought she might. Rather, Myra stood at the end of the family line, keeping a close watch on Bran and...

"Where's Arya?"

Her mother voiced the concern before she could. It did not even take a quick glance around the courtyard for Myra to know her little sister was nowhere nearby. She was probably running around Winterfell, again, wearing a strange, little disguise, again, and getting herself into all sorts of trouble...again.

It was a wonder their septa still had hair.

"I could look for her," Myra suggested, though she knew all the knights in the Seven Kingdoms couldn't find her sister if she didn't want them to.

Just as she said the words, a spry little figure broke out from the rest, wearing an old helm that Mikken had been working on earlier. Smiles could be seen around the courtyard as her father grabbed Arya and took the helm out of her possession. Her sister proceeded to shove Bran out of the way to get her own place farther up the line.

The king arrived shortly after.

The first person she took notice of was the prince, Joffrey Baratheon, mostly because he took notice of her sister, and the two instantly exchanged looks that she was not entirely comfortable with. Robb noticed as well. Myra thought he might try to stab the boy right then and there. It made her want to laugh, seeing her brother acting protective over Sansa, and briefly she wondered if this was how he might be over any future suitor of hers. Maybe he had already been that way to Domeric.

Frankly, she could not see anything appealing about Joffrey, besides the fact that his father was king. He was a scrawny thing with nothing for lips and a mean, prideful look in his eyes, though that might have been the Lannister side showing, and he certainly looked more Lannister than Baratheon.

A large carriage slowly made its way under the portcullis, no doubt carrying the queen and the other Baratheon children. Myra could see the 'battle scars' from a long fought journey on the Kingsroad. No wonder it had taken them nearly a month to reach Winterfell.

Robert Baratheon entered next, his Kingsguard on either side of him, their white cloaks blowing in the breeze. If she had expected the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms to look like anything, what she saw was clearly not that. King Robert was a fat man who made her feel terrible for his horse, not the man she had heard of in stories her septa had told her a dozen times before, the man who led the rebellion, who took off after his love and destroyed the wretched Targaryen who had taken her from him. She half thought the stories were lies by looking at him.

She did not get to look long, however, for as soon as he entered, they knelt, as all good lords do for their king. They stayed that way, all staring at the mud, until out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father stand again.

Myra watched as words were exchanged between old friends. She had never seen her father smile the way he did with King Robert. There was a certain youthfulness to it, and she wondered if her father hadn't been as glum as he was now. But he had lost everything at the beginning of the rebellion. She supposed they were lucky he smiled at all.

King Robert made his way down the line, looking at all her siblings before finally coming to her. His whole body seemed to stiffen as his gaze fell on her, and she could see the recognition reflected in his blue eyes. Mostly, she noticed the smell of alcohol on his breath.

"So the rumors are true," he spoke, though it sounded more like a whisper to her. "You look just like her."

It was not hard to guess at who the king referred to.

All her life, all Myra ever heard was how much she looked like her aunt, the great Lyanna Stark, as beautiful as she was feisty. She was not afraid to speak her mind or to use her sword for that matter. Her death was a great tragedy, and for her life, a rebellion had started, a great war that toppled a dynasty and left thousands dead across the fields of Westeros.

Myra hated her.

She was haunted by the ghost of a woman she had never met, expected to live up to her standards, standards that frankly Myra did not agree with. She could not go anywhere without a comparison, without being told how much she looked like a dead woman. It was like the gods had cursed her to live with an identity that was not her own. Perhaps that was why she was so different from her aunt, as if it was only to be as far away from her as possible, to be as different as possible so that maybe, one day, someone might recognize her for her rather than her aunt.

Of course, she should not have expected that from the king. After all, Lyanna was to have been his wife.

"So I have been told, Your Grace," Myra replied, dipping her head. She waited a moment before looking back up at the king. He still watched her, unmoving, recognition turned to disbelief in his eyes. The length of his gaze was starting to make her uncomfortable, and she wanted nothing more than to look at her father, silently urging him to help, but she did not dar look away from the king lest he take it as an insult.

"The gods truly do hate me," he whispered.

"Your Grace?"

Her words seemed to snap the king from his reverie. He stepped back, clearing his throat and looking to her father. "Ned, take me to your crypts."

And then he was gone.

Myra released a breath she had not realized she was holding, shoulders sagging in relief. Her father walked by, quickly patting her shoulder before following the king. It did more for her nerves than she thought it would.

Only then did she feel the gazes of the others.

The whole courtyard seemed to be staring at her, eyes filled with emotions she could not quite place, but she certainly did not like. Her whole family was looking at her, save for Robb, who was glaring at the spot the king had vacated. Prince Joffrey was looking strangely pleased while to his right she could see the most famous, or perhaps infamous, of the Kingsguard, his uncle, Jaime Lannister, giving her a rather curious stare, like he had just found something he could not quite make sense of. The rest of Robert's court watched her as well, though they quickly went back to their own business, as though nothing unusual had actually happened.

But above it all, Myra felt her gaze.

The eyes of the queen were hard to avoid. Cersei Lannister, for all the beauty she possessed, could be terrifying if she wished to be, and Myra felt the brunt of it at that very moment.

Oh, how she wished the walls of the courtyard were closer, if only so she could melt into them and disappear.

__________________________________________________

Jaime

"See something you like?"

Myra Stark had not spoken a word since she joined the company outside the Great Hall - frankly, he was surprised the girl had turned up at all - but he had noticed her gaze on him several times, studious, curious. It was hard to miss, they were standing next to each other after al, he her escort to the feast, but he got the feeling she was oblivious to that.

The utter look of surprise that spread across her face confirmed his belief. She turned away abruptly, but Jaime did not need to see her face to know it was turning a deep shade of red. That was how they all reacted, all the ladies in all the courts so set in their ways. Their inability to think outside of propriety bored him.

He was still not quite sure what to make of her. What gossip he had heard, which was little to say the least, painted a picture of Lyanna Stark reborn. Physically, their words had been true. If her aunt had been standing in that very room with them, Jaime may not have been able to tell them apart. However, she lacked the fire that Lyanna possessed. In fact, she was very much like her father: calm, cool, and utterly uninteresting. It was a shame, really.

"I was just...thinking of something, Ser Jaime."

"It must involve a good deal of me."

He watched her sigh, an inner struggle between her propriety and agitation no doubt. Cersei often had the same look.

"You are handsome, Ser Jaime, I admit, but that has nothing to do with my thoughts."

Jaime had to give it to Northerners: he enjoyed their straightforwardness. No lies or dancing about the subjects with intricate words and compliments laced with poison, just pure, honest truth.

None of them would last a day in King's Landing.

"Certainly it has to have something to do with it. Why stare at me if it doesn't inspire anything?"

Her jaw muscle twitched. It made him smirk. Cersei often said he enjoyed goading people on far too much for his own good.

"Perhaps you inspire disgust, Jaime, like some sideshow attraction that pains people to look at, but they find they can't turn away from."

Tyrion approached them, a little too much spring in his step, as he finished off a goblet of wine. Jaime often found himself wondering who would win in a contest: his little brother or the king. His money was always on Tyrion, and he had the feeling it would be a well-placed bet.

"Ah, is that why no one can stop staring at me? I always wondered."

"We ought to start charging people," Tyrion replied, turning to face his companion. "Lady Myra. I apologize for not meeting you properly earlier. I had some rather important business to attend to."

"It is quite alright, Lord Tyrion," Myra replied with a bow of her head, all smiles and courtesy. She even sounded like she meant it. "I'm certain we are all tired of introductions."

"Especially you, I should expect."

Jaime did not miss the brief glance Myra shot toward the doors of the Great Hall, where her mother stood with Robert. The king was already starting to sway from too much wine. He hoped Catelyn had a strong arm or the feast would be well over before it started. Not that Jaime would have minded. He was tired of ceremonies. It seemed that Robert could not wipe his ass without holding one, each more extravagant than the last.

Myra nodded once. "I do my part until I am bid to do no more."

Tyrion almost looked impressed. "Well spoken. Your septa must be proud."

Not long after, the company shuffled in line, preparing to march into the feast like some sort of spectacle on parade. He thought the years of countless banquets would have waned his annoyance, but instead he found it growing. Peace never had been very kind to him. It only made the longing grow.

"Is there something wrong, Ser Jaime?"

He found her gray eyes watching him, and could have sworn they looked concerned. What in the seven hells had earned him that?

Before he had the chance to answer, Tyrion did him the honors from just behind them. "It's nothing he isn't used to. My brother is always bored. I would be too if my job consisted of standing and looking pretty all day."

Jaime looked over his shoulder. "I thought you said I was the ugly one."

Tyrion shrugged. "It's all a matter of perspective."

He did not miss the smirk on Myra's face as they entered the fray arm in arm.

The Great Hall was filled with boisterous laughter and the heinous conversations of those who already had too much to drink. It died down as Robert entered, chairs scrapping across the stone floor as the people moved to stand for their king, but there was still a buzz of murmuring to be heard, none of it subtle in the least. Jaime could practically picture the frown on Cersei's face. He did not like it.

"Seems the party started early."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Myra look at him. "It's quite normal, I assure you. People might think differently of the North if they knew how we feast."

"You might be better off."

They took a few more steps into the hall, their pace remarkably snail-like and tiresome for his long legs. Jaime bet Tyrion was enjoying it all immensely. To his left and right, dogs could be seen chewing on bones, men of the guard were dining with common folk, and several couples were already in the process of being nearly vulgar. Better off indeed.

"Tell me something, why is it you and I are in the back? Last I checked, you certainly weren't the youngest." Jaime leaned in close, whispering in her ear. "Is it that you wish to avoid a certain king?"

She immediately stiffened and her grip on his arm tightened. He'd struck a nerve. Jaime hadn't missed the interaction between her and Robert. If he was one to dole out pity, she would have it. He knew Robert well, and knew men just like Robert equally so. They weren't ones to let go of things that caught their attention, and the image of Lyanna Stark was bound to captivate him for an eternity.

"I always take the last place," Myra answered quickly, too much so. "I consider it a place of responsibility, to watch out for my youngest siblings when my parents cannot. And to show my humility. I may be the eldest, but Winterfell is not mine to hold."

"A good enough excuse, I suppose, though I doubt that explains why you practically ran to the back after Robert arrived."

Myra was silent for a while before quietly saying, "Wouldn't you?"

Jaime frowned, glancing down at his attire, which for once did not consist of his white cloak and embellished armor. "Can't say I've ever had the choice."

She nodded slowly. "I suppose none of us does."

No more words were exchanged between the two of them. Jaime escorted Myra to her seat, pretending to play the gallant knight that all the ladies yearned to see. Whatever had transpired between them no longer mattered to him. He spent the rest of the evening here and there, always a great distance from Cersei, and always longing to close it.