A Vow Without Honor

The Red Keep

Arya

She was bored.

It had been a week since they'd arrived, and Arya was already sick of the Red Keep. Well, she was sick of what parts she got to see, which she could name on one hand.

It wasn't fair! She knew the stories: old passages and secret tunnels built by Maegor the Cruel, so many that people could get lost and die before they ever saw the light again. Rumor was the dragon skulls that once decorated the throne room were hidden somewhere, bones so large they could swallow her whole. And then there was the Iron Throne itself, which she had yet to see. Instead, she had been cooped up in the Tower of the Hand, getting fitted for more dresses she would never wear and sewing direwolf patches.

She missed her direwolf. At least Nymeria was free, a lot freer than she would have been in King's Landing. She deserved a place without walls and highborn jerks turning their noses up at her. Stupid Prince Joffrey had done something right after all, she guessed.

Sansa missed Lady too, she knew. Her sister was a loud crier, especially at night when she thought no one could hear her. Maybe next time she'd know better than to choose a boy over her family.

But Myra did nothing wrong. She never did anything wrong. Myra was perfect, unlike Sansa who only thought she was. Sometimes Arya resented her for it, but deep down, she was always grateful to have someone like her to fall back on when she was in trouble.

Like at the keep. She got the King to stop and saved their wolves. Arya could not figure out how. Sansa said the King was just smart like that, but she didn't believe her. He would not have bothered trying to execute them in the first place.

"Why did the King listen to you?"

Myra tilted her head, confused.

They were sitting on the balcony outside their quarters, taking in the early morning sun. None of the stupid windows shut, so the crack of dawn always managed to wake them up. Not Sansa, though. She would sleep well past midday if Septa Mordane didn't drag her out of bed.

"Back when you saved Lady and Brenna," Arya clarified, picking at a loose string on her breeches. It was easy to get away with wearing them when their septa was not around. Myra never cared much. She wore them herself, but not now; she had on one of those new dresses she had made, the kind not meant for the North, but to make all the young lords take notice.

And they had. Their father had to practically chase them out of the tower. Jory told all the guards not to let anyone in who did not have official business with the Hand of the King. That never stopped Renly Baratheon, though. He did have official business, and then he came right to their quarters and grabbed Myra for a walk.

Sansa called it romantic. Arya had other words for it.

Myra frowned, looking back to the sea. She did that a lot.

"He listened to reason. I just happened to be the one speaking it."

"Father spoke with reason, but the King didn't listen to him, and he's supposed to be his friend."

Had Arya thought to consider more than just her undying curiosity, she would have noticed how tense her sister grew, how her grip on the armrest tightened. She might have even caught the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

Instead, she got the warm smile of an older sibling explaining life in a way only they could. "And that was the problem. Sometimes it takes someone who isn't a friend to knock some sense into you."

"The King seems awfully friendly to you."

Myra's hand went to her face. "Arya...look..."

"It's complicated, right?" she jumped from her seat. "That's what everyone likes to say when they don't want to explain anything."