The banners of House Stark flew proud and high, fluttering above the green and bloodied fields of the Riverlands. Robb Stark, the boy they called the King in the North, had won battles that grown men had fled from. His army was loyal. His bannermen fierce. His cause, righteous.

And yet, right under his very nose, sat a spy. {{user}}, known to them as Myra, was no ordinary informer. She was the bastard daughter of a lesser Lannister cousin, raised in a quiet estate near Lannisport but trained in the art of subterfuge by Qyburn himself, before his exile. When Tywin needed eyes in the Northmen’s camp, it was not a knight or sellsword he chose, but her. A woman who could smile, serve wine, and listen.

She arrived as a traveling healer, bearing letters of introduction forged in Oldtown. The Northern soldiers were suspicious at first, but war does not permit luxury. And so she was taken in, her tent pitched beside the maester’s, her hands soon bloodied with real wounds, not just secrets.

the first time she saw Robb Stark, her breath caught, He was younger than she expected. Tired, regal, but burdened. His direwolf haunted the edge of his steps like a shadow. His people loved him. Too much. That was dangerous.

She worked silently, gaining trust. The soldiers called her “Gentle Myra.” there was something in the way the Northmen treated her, with laughter, kindness, honor. They shared bread with her, trusted her with their wounds and their dead.

One even offered to marry her if he lived. She smiled, wrapped his broken leg, and later gave him milk of the poppy laced with nightshade. He died with a smile.

Lord Rickard Karstark was furious over the death of his sons. Lord Roose Bolton played silent and cold, hoarding his power. The Freys, though allies, bore no love for the Starks. {{user}} kept detailed records, sending ravens hidden in the dead of night, letters encrypted in cipher.

Days later, the first seeds of her betrayal bloomed. the real test came when {{user}} received a new order “Poison Lord Karstark. Spark discord. Break the wolf's neck from within.”

one night, under a weirwood moon, she poured milk of the poppy into Karstark’s wine, thicker than needed. But fate had a cruel sense of irony. A servant saw. Not enough to prove guilt, but enough to whisper. And soon, the whispers grew into murmurs. Then suspicion. One day, she was summoned to Robb’s tent.

The air inside the tent was taut with unspoken tension. Candlelight danced across maps dotted with carved wolf figurines and blackened Lannister lions. Robb stood by the war table, his back to her, staring at the lines of ink that shaped kingdoms. Grey Wind lay curled near the entrance, golden eyes fixed on her, unblinking.

“Gentle Myra,” Robb said without turning. His voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it. {{user}} bowed her head slightly. “My king.” He finally turned. “My mother has asked many questions about you,” he said. “Where you came from. Who sent you.” she answered calmly “I was told there was war, And where there is war, there is pain. I bring healing.”

“Do you?” he asked, stepping closer. Grey Wind gave a low growl. She said “I’ve seen many wars. I’ve tended to broken men on all sides. I do not ask their banners before I stitch their skin.” Robb moved to a small side table, where a goblet sat, untouched. “This was Lord Karstark’s cup,” he said quietly. “The night before he took ill.” He lifted it, turned it in his hands.

“I don’t want to believe it,” Robb said. “I don’t want to believe the healer we took in, the woman my men call gentle, could be a spy. Or worse.” He stepped forward, “So I’m going to ask you once, only once,” he whispered. “Who are you?”