A Vow Without Honor

The Tournament - Part I

Myra

The first time she ever saw blood, it was in the godswood. She and Robb often hid there, knowing it made the septas, as well as their mother, uncomfortable. But they were children of the North and had nothing to fear of their old gods. So they ran around the heart tree, catching its leaves as they fell, unwary of its crying face.

It had been a shriek the likes of which she had never heard, high-pitched and strangled, and in utter pain.

A rabbit sat just inside the wall, dropped by some besieged hawk. Its white fur was stained red, body mangled, a foot twisted in the wrong direction, yet the poor creature lived, and it was screaming.

Robb wanted to kill it, and she had slapped him away. With the body in her arms, her dress covered in its blood, she had run back inside the keep crying. Through tears she had begged Maester Luwin to do something, but his face grew solemn, though his eyes remained soft. He gave the rabbit something to drink (milk of the poppy, she realized later, enough to kill it) and led her to her father's solar.

That day, the Lord of Winterfell gave his daughter her first lesson on death.

Myra could not help but think of that rabbit as she watched the poor knight from the Vale bleed out in the dirt beneath her. Completely innocent yet doomed to die, she wished someone would go to him in his final moments, but she was rooted to her seat. Her eyes were transfixed on the lance tip lodged in his neck, the blood seeping onto his newly crafted armor. Here was someone's son, dying far from home for the entertainment of his fellows, and all they could do was watch.

A dangerous place indeed.

Finally, his spasms ceased and collective breaths were released. Two squires dragged him off the field, and Robert, momentarily sobered, shouted for the next round and another goblet of wine.

To her left, Sansa appeared pale, but retained all the composure a good lady of the court ought to. Inwardly, she was probably congratulating herself. On her right, Arya watched in fascination. The look on her face was something different entirely, a curiosity that no one should have.

"We should pray for him later," Myra said as the crowds began to murmur once more. "Ser Hugh deserves that much from us."

"An excellent idea," Septa Mordane agreed with a nod, as if they had just decided what wine to take with their meal rather than how to mourn the dead. "To have witnessed such a tragedy, it is only right."

The only tragedy was how little people felt for it.

Proving her point, Arya made a face. "What's the point? We didn't know him."

"Arya!" Septa Mordane shouted, but her sister would not recant. She never did.

"But we didn't!"

"To know a man at his death is to know him better than anyone has." Myra could not remember where she had read the line, but it had been one that stuck with her. She could recall telling it to Robb and Jon after their first execution.

"True words, my lady," a voice spoke just above her. Ser Barristan gave her an approving nod, which she returned. Robert had remembered her small lie regarding Jaime and the two had spoken for some time regarding the order. She found him an honorable, kind man, one her father greatly admired. Once she pressed him on the subject of the Mad King but was only met with a sad look and an excuse.

The King mumbled something about shitting and took another swig from his goblet.

"Still seems silly," Arya continued, arms crossed. There was not a person alive who could match her sister's stubbornness.