A Vow Without Honor

The Truth

Sansa

The day had been so beautiful.

Her father had already gone by the time she woke up. Arya as well, off to her dancing lessons. She and Septa Mordane had shared a quiet breakfast and agreed that an afternoon of sewing in the garden would be a lovely way to pass the time.

She had been wondering what to sew, perhaps a direwolf like Lady or maybe a lion. It would make good practice for the future, for all her princes and princesses.

No, a lion was not right. They would be stags.

Myra would know what to do. She would not make fun of her or chide her for being silly like Septa Mordane. Her older sister understood what she was going through. At least someone in the family had.

But she had to leave. Every time she asked her father why, he would just grow quiet. Perhaps she had done something wrong.

No, that did not sound like her sister.

The Tower of the Hand was unusually quiet that day, but Sansa hardly minded. She and Septa Mordane walked wordlessly into the main keep. In the distance, she thought she heard something. Shouts, maybe, the sound of a scuffle. During the tournament, it had happened often. Jory or other Stark soldiers would accompany them when the nights grew long, just in case, but most of the knights had left King's Landing.

Septa Mordane slowed, grabbing at her hand. "We should return to the tower, Sansa."

She looked so frightened; she was never frightened.

"What is it?" Sansa asked, not quite willing to move. "What's happening?"

"I don't know," the septa answered.

Just then, a man rounded the corner. He was armored in golden chains and a cloak, a City Watch soldier. His sword was drawn and bloody, and he was breathing heavily.

Sansa barely noticed Septa Mordane push her behind. She was too focused on the blade.

"Sansa, leave," the woman whispered.

But why? The City Watch was supposed to protect them. Someone must have attacked, and then had been sent to check on them. Maybe Joffrey sent them, or her father.

"What is going on?" Septa Mordane asked the guard. He did not answer. "I am a septa sworn to the Seven and I demand that you answer me."

The man said nothing. He walked right up to them, look her septa straight in the eyes, and shoved his sword through her abdomen.

She remembered the knight, Ser Hugh, and how he had died with a lance in his throat during the tournament; she remembered how proud she was, a highborn lady who did not faint at the sight of blood. It had almost been exciting.

Now blood covered her dress, her beautiful, green gown she had made herself. She had wanted it to match Joffrey's eyes.

The sword hovered just short of her hip. She could almost reach out and touch it, touch the blood. Septa Mordane's blood.

It vanished in an instant, and the old woman crumpled to the floor.

Sansa held a hand up. It was speckled with little droplets of red. Behind her shaking fingers, she could see the man, the member of the City Watch, glaring at her.

Why did you do that, ser? she wanted to ask. You're supposed to protect us.

But she remained silent, the perfect highborn lady, even as his hand reached over to her. He could have easily crushed her skull in his palm. Perhaps he would.