A Vow Without Honor

The Crown

Myra

When she was a young girl, all Myra had wanted to do was attend a wedding. Before Sansa dreamed of her knights and ladies, her older sister had fawned over the idea of a wedding. She'd seen one, in passing, in Winter's Town. The people laughed and danced while the bride and bridegroom were showered in trinkets and praise. Ale overflowed their cups and spilled across the ground, drunken men bet each other in little games, women flocked in groups to giggle over others, and children danced in circles, holding ends of rope and daring the others to let go.

Surely, she had thought, if the commonfolk had such a splendid time, then a highborn wedding would be something to behold.

There had only been one wedding in her recollection while she lived in Winterfell. They had been invited, as was customary, but were under no expectation to attend. It would have been a sad sight to see, as Wylla had told her. The bride would not stop weeping, a girl of five and ten married to a man more than thrice her age. But she should have considered herself lucky. Her husband's brother was nearly seventy.

That was when she stopped dreaming of them.

And weddings now, of course, were not so fine a thing to her.

Servants and handmaidens gossiped up and down the halls of the Red Keep, lords and ladies from across the land dressed in their finest silks, knights had new swords and armor forged, and the smallfolk danced the nights away with a buzz that threatened to shake the very foundations of the keep, but all Myra could think of was her uncle.

Edmure, the rightful Lord of Riverrun, shivering in a cell beneath the Twins, alone and nearly forgotten, while she pranced about King's Landing. While he was stripped to bare rags, she wore the finest deep red gown with rubies and emeralds inlaid in the bodice and the sleeves while golden strands weaved complex patterns across the skirts. Her necklace bore a ruby the size of her thumb, joined with amethyst and mother of pearl, hanging from a golden chain.

They had both lost the war, or so she had been told.

"Is everything alright, Myra?"

Blinking, Myra recalled that she was not alone. Margaery had requested her presence as the final preparations were made before the ceremony. They were in her quarters, which were larger still than hers and Jaime's.

Margaery stood before a mirror as her cousins fretted about her. They had all been introduced at one point, she was certain, but Myra had forgotten and, frankly, they all looked the same to her.

She was seated in a chair across from the bride, her gowns spilling out across the floor in a red tidal wave. Amongst the hues of chestnut, sand, and pale greens, she was very much the sore thumb.

"Forgive me, Margaery. I was lost in thought."

It wasn't a lie, at least.

Still, the future queen frowned and quickly dismissed the others. With quick giggles, they melted away, as if into the walls themselves.

"It is I who should be asking forgiveness," Margaery said, easing into the chair beside her. It had once been occupied by her grandmother, but Olenna had complained all the twittering hurt her ears and had disappeared from the room. "What a dreadful thing for me to do, asking you here. This wedding is probably the last place you want to be."

Myra felt the corners of her mouth twitch. "There are a few others I could name."

A few dozen, perhaps. What would this wedding be next to Maidenpool? The Twins? That cave so far away?

"Even so," Margaery continued, leaning gently on the armrest. A ringlet of hair fell across her shoulder. "I should have considered it. What happened is unspeakable and if you were to quietly disappear after the ceremony, I would make certain my husband takes no notice."