A Vow Without Honor

The Leave Taking

Myra

The family crypt was not a place she visited often. She had first entered its dank halls when she was ten and two, and had been surprised by how warm it was. Robb and Jon had mulled over the idea of moving underground when the next winter came, excitedly claiming statues to sleep by, but their father silenced the planning with a dark look. The crypt was no place for silly words, only those carefully considered, as solemn and binding as an oath. Myra made sure to never speak whenever she returned.

She could not be certain what brought her back now. Surely it had to be some form of bad luck to wander the place while her little brother still barely clung to life, but her feet kept their pace and had no intention of turning back. Perhaps she only wanted to see everything once more before journeying south, even the dead.

There was something oddly final about it all.

Myra approached the last of the tombs. Built nearly eighteen years before, it housed her aunt, Lyanna Stark, but all that she could see gazing upon the statue was her own face. It sent a small chill up her spine, as though Myra were looking at her own final resting place, though she supposed that was not to be true. She would be entombed with her lord husband's family, whomever that may be.

Lyanna's outstretched hand held a small feather, or rather its remains. The notoriously damp crypts destroyed most things not made of stone within weeks, if not less, and even some of the older statues had to be replaced, though a few were left to settle. Their faces had been forgotten and no one knew what to do with them.

Her hand gently reached for the plume, touching only the slightest edge lest the rest fall apart before her eyes. She wondered what sort of significance it held, and if the hand that bore it knew it was there.

"She may not have known it, but I loved her with all my heart."

Eyes wide, Myra turned to the unmistakable source of the voice: Robert Baratheon. How he had managed to catch her off guard, she could not be sure. She had thought the man was incapable of going anywhere without catching the attention of everyone in the vicinity.

"Your Grace!" She fell to her knees with a smack, her skirts soaking in what water had gathered on the stone floor while her eyes took in the image of the King's mud-caked boots as she willed away the heat gathering in her cheeks. How foolish she must have looked to the man, so lost in her own daydreams that she could not be bothered to greet him properly. As she thought over all the ways to apologize, his gloved hand reached out for her.

"Don't go ruining your dress on my account."

Myra took the King's hand, surprised by how quickly and easily he lifted her. Despite his girth, King Robert had maintained his strength and his dominating presence, if his towering height over her said anything. There, in the darkness of the crypts, it was suddenly no longer difficult to picture the man he once was, with his helm of antlers and a war hammer that could crush a man into nothing.

"You Northerners and your propriety," the King continued, oblivious to her scrutiny. His breath, as usual, stunk of drink. "Do you plan on taking a knee every time we cross paths?"

Her mouth opened and closed, unsure of what to say. The man's boisterous nature made it difficult to tell if he was angry or not. In that manner, she found him very similar to her father's bannermen, the Umbers. Make an odd comment to the Greatjon and you stood half a chance of getting an axe in the face. The other half was reserved for an hour's worth of boisterous laughter. With that thought, she also had to wonder why the South believed them to be proper people.

"Only if you ask me to, Your Grace."

"Ask you to," Robert echoed with a snort. "And if I asked you to jump from The Wall stark naked, would you?"