A Vow Without Honor

The Vow

Myra

"I think you like that beast more than me."

Myra blinked, startled from her reverie of forests and howls on the breeze. She turned to Jaime, who still sat on the water's edge filling his water skin, catching the mischievous glint in his green eyes before he returned to his task.

Things had been...easier. That was not to say she was completely recovered, or whatever word there was for such an experience (she doubted she ever would be the same again), but sleep came a little faster and lasted a little longer. Her mind did not wander so endlessly, and smiles were not so difficult to produce. Acquiring a horse had done wonders to ease her mind, and seeing that little girl days ago seemed to return something to her. It was a taste of home, perhaps, and a reminder of a young woman who dreamed of the sea.

Jaime Lannister, however, may have been the biggest change. Seeing that the worst had passed, he no longer hovered as he once had, and his particular brand of humor had returned full force: brash, nagging, improper to a fault. She had to wonder if he had reined it in a little for her sake, or if she had just grown used to it over time. It certainly did not bother her as it used to. In fact, she welcomed it with open arms.

He was certainly more accepting of conversation though, that much she could tell. It made the passage of time far less painful. They didn't speak of much, usually whatever surrounded them, and occasionally happier times with their families, both parties avoiding particular subjects as best they could, but it was clear that whatever barrier that had existed between them in the beginning had begun to wear away. She supposed being stuck together would do that.

Unhappy with the lack of attention, the chestnut plow horse they had bought began to nip at her fingers until she returned to stroking his muzzle.

"Of course I do," Myra replied, fingers tracing the white blaze that marked its head. "He's quiet, respectful, and he certainly smells better."

Snorting, Jaime stood. "You don't exactly smell like flowers either, Stark."

Myra smirked, gathering the horse's reins. He'd taken to using her last name whenever she irked him. She usually went back to calling him 'Ser Jaime,' which the man might have found the most annoying of all.

Positioning herself, Myra put her foot in the stirrup and, with practiced ease, swung herself into the saddle. She nudged the horse forward, bringing him beside Jaime on the bank. Sniffing at his clothes, the creature decided the rocks beneath its hooves were a far more interesting subject.

"What are you doing?" Jaime asked, looking up at her.

"I have been clinging to your back for the better part of three days," Myra replied with a shrug. "Now it's your turn."

Jaime rolled his eyes at her childish response, but did not offer any resistance. He tucked the water skin into the saddle pack and climbed onto the saddle behind her.

Briefly, Myra wondered if she hadn't made a mistake. The pressure of a body behind her made a deep chill crawl up her spine. She stiffened slightly at the movement, but Jaime made no indication that he noticed. Rather, he seemed to understand how uncomfortable it might make her. Aside from a steadying hand on her shoulder, he made no move to touch any other part of her.

Clicking her tongue, Myra urged the horse along, moving them just into the tree line, still following the ever-flowing waterway. The further west they traveled, the thinner the Bay of Crabs became. It would turn into the Trident soon enough. At the very least, they'd be certain then that there would be no sign of Stannis Baratheon's men, not that there had been any so far. She wondered if the man even knew, or cared, that his prisoners were running free.