A Vow Without Honor

The Iron Throne

Myra

In all the time she had been at King's Landing, Myra had never stepped foot in the Great Hall. And it was not until she crossed the threshold, having left Septa Mordane and Sansa to their daily lessons, that she realized the true reason.

She had been avoiding it.

As far as seats went, the Iron Throne was not as large as the storytellers made it to be. Had she the courage to stand beside it, the swords that formed the back would make it to maybe her shoulder, and if she were perfectly honest, she could not image King Robert fitting in the thing comfortably.

And yet, it had this...presence. It was alive somehow and with the eyes it did not have, the throne was watching, studying, judging. Kings had bled for it and it had made them bleed, and she dared to stand in its presence, this insignificant speck in the grand scheme of its game.

Not for the first time did Myra wish she had never left the North.

"Marvelous, isn't it?"

Myra jumped, farther and faster than she would have liked. Her hand flew to her mouth, however, preventing other embarrassing actions on her startled body's part. She had thought in a place as large and open as the Great Hall, she would have heard anyone approach, though she supposed the man behind her was not quite anyone.

"Lord Baelish," Myra mumbled when she regained some composure, handing moving to her chest. She had passed him a few times in the halls of the Tower of the Hand as he went to or came from heated discussions with her father. The Master of Coin was a different sort of man, one who did no hiding and seemed perfectly content with the world knowing he was scheming. Perhaps, in some twisted way, it made him the most honest man in King's Landing.

"I did not hear you."

"That seems quite clear," he said with a strange sort of smile. He was not a small man, per say, but his stature was hardly like that of other lords in the keep. She was nearly taller than him, in fact, and Sansa would likely grow taller than the two of them; she imagined a great many people underestimated him because of it. "My apologies, Lady Myra, I often forget I don't have clamoring footsteps as opposed to some of my armored counterparts."

"No need to apologize. I fear I may not have stirred if a stampede broke down the doors."

The corner of his mouth twisted, almost a smirk, but far more calculating. Yes, her impressions of the man said that he was always thinking, a mind never still, filled with plans. Her father had not so subtly insisted she have as little contact with him as possible, but here they were, alone, because of a curiosity she had to quench, her handmaiden and septa nowhere to be found.

"Which brings me back to my previous question." He stepped forward, closer to the dais than she had dared. Whatever affect the Iron Throne had, Petyr Baelish appeared immune.

"What do you think of it?"

He did not turn back to her. Myra believed if she slipped out at that moment, his question would be forgotten, as would she. Perhaps its affect was merely different to him.

"It's not what I expected." Myra took a hesitant step forward, watching the blades that formed the throne as if they would spring to life and skewer her. It was a silly notion, something made for Old Nan's tales, yet her heart fervently believed it to be true.

"Things seldom are," he replied, turning to her. "This place especially. What you must realize is that nothing here happens without a purpose. Everyone has a plan and not one step is taken unless it coincides with that plan."

Myra looked back at him, her gaze steady. She studied his eyes, knowing full well she could not pick out the truth, but perhaps there were other things to see. They were serious things, those light irises, and she could see all the intelligence cooped up behind them, waiting, knowing, testing. Yes, of course, a test. What had everything in the capital been but a test?