A Vow Without Honor

The Pieces

Myra

The days began to blur together, with slow, trudging marches that appeared to take them nowhere. Though she had attempted to converse with the others in the initial days, the conversations always ran dry. She found Ser Harys to be overwhelming in a multitude of ways and the man called Red Ronnet gave her an uneasy feeling. He'd made several comments that bordered on insult. While she had tolerated a few, figuring it was simply his nature, she'd tossed a few back in his face. Jaime, however, had been more ferocious in his response once he'd caught on.

Of all the lords to accompany them, Myra had taken to the Strongboar best, although that usually meant long bouts of silence.

Slowly, the flowing fields of the Crownlands melted into the wastelands of war. Burnt crops and hastily dug mass graves dotted the landscape, a clear sign that they had crossed into the Riverlands. Throngs of refugees passed them daily, their few possessions in hand and hate in their eyes. Myra had tried to pass along food or coin, but most rejected her offers. Some even spat upon the ground before her. Lannisters were despised, and she was one of them now.

So, she began to ignore them, turning her gaze toward the landscape or Jaime.

It was alarmingly easy to pretend they did not exist.

The nights were easier at least, when the men gathered around large fires, eating and laughing, sometimes even singing. When she closed her eyes, she could scarcely tell the difference between them and her brother's army. Their accents were less harsh, but their jokes were just as jovial, their bonds just as strong. They spoke of home and their wives and children; they spoke of places they hoped to see again soon.

Sometimes, she and Jaime walked amongst the men while they were eating. At first, they would awkwardly attempt to stand and speak their proper courtesies, but her husband had them joking in no time. For all the shame that his name carried amongst the nobility, the soldiers admired Jaime. The loss of his hand meant nothing, his murder of the king meant nothing. Jaime was a soldier, just like them, and Myra knew there was nothing a soldier appreciated more than being led by a man who knew what they were going through.

The passing days had done nothing to help her good-brother. She ate with Tyrion once, though it mostly consisted of him quietly drinking and little else. Not even Bronn could lighten the atmosphere with his terrible humor.

"Where do whores go?" Tyrion asked her at one point in the evening, cutting off a story that Bronn was telling without a second thought.

She had glanced at both Bronn and Podrick before answering as best she could. "I think they'd want to go home, whatever that might mean to them."

His eyes had grown wide at her answer, and he ceased to speak.

The remainder of her time belonged to Jaime, most of which was spent in their tent, a tangle of limbs and sweat. It only occurred to her on the fourth night that the men could probably hear them - in fact, they definitely did - but her propriety was smothered by her need to be with Jaime. War had done many terrible things to her; the men being able to hear as she was pleasured by her husband was the least of her worries.

"Tell me more about Casterly Rock," she said one evening as they huddled under furs, her head propped on Jaime's chest as she waited for his answer.

"I s'pose you really are heading there now," he mused, no doubt not entirely believing it. Most things felt like a dream to her as well. "What have I told you about it?"

"That it's tall."

Jaime started to laugh at that. "I think you're missing a few details."

His face settled after that, softening; his eyes were distant and she could tell he was trying to remember.