A Vow Without Honor

The Guilt

Myra

When she woke that morning in the cabin, Jaime was still asleep.

Warm and strangely comfortable despite her awkward position, Myra settled for remaining where she was. Mind still clouded by sleep, she took to watching the unconscious man beside her, unafraid of what might happen if he woke and caught her staring.

He was a quiet sleeper, she realized, making scarcely a sound as he reclined against the wall. He'd said the opposite about her once, as had Robb and Jon in their youth. She snored, not loudly of course, but that was never the point. It was about making the subject uncomfortable, and for whatever reason, telling a woman she snored always did the trick.

Had things been different, had history not gone the way it did, Myra thought her brothers would enjoy Jaime's company.

Myra frowned, moving her chin against his shoulder. His face was relaxed now, but she remembered the way it looked in the firelight, when he spoke of destroying his honor and saving a city all at once. In one moment, he seemed so young, and in the next, the years burdened him, carving deep lines into his face. He'd looked so fragile to her in that moment, a warrior threatening to fall apart under the lightest of touches. It was what kept her motionless the entire time he spoke, only daring to come forward when he'd grown quiet for too long.

He bore his soul to her, and she wasn't even certain why.

But she was glad he had. She was thankful, and admittedly more than a little relieved that he had put just as much trust in her as she had him.

They were holding one another up in more ways than one, and some not so small part of her was afraid of the unknown they faced when they finally left their sanctuary. Not pain or death or any of the other horrid images war could conjure, but the idea that whatever this was could not continue. Without meaning to, she'd grown used to him, and the idea of facing a day in the future without him seemed wrong to her. A choice would have to be made soon though, whether by her or him, and Myra suspected she was not the only one who did not welcome the idea.

Though, she supposed he had already made a choice once.

And so had she.

They'd chosen one another over their families. Perhaps she knew what that meant, but it was not a road she was quite willing to explore just yet.

The hand that gripped hers twitched slightly. Myra looked down, taking in the sight of it. How small her hand was in his, how frail. Though covered in dirt and scratches from her time on the road, it was still the delicate hand of a maiden. His bore scars and callouses. It was the hand that killed a king, and saved her life.

It was also the hand that tried to kill her brother.

"I lied to you," she whispered, not quite brave enough to tell him when he could actually hear her.

Myra freed her hand from his, running her fingers across his skin. Somehow, she knew he would not wake. It was the sort of sleep that no force that roamed the earth could drag a person from, when utter exhaustion met a brief moment of peace. She wasn't sure when he last got a decent night's rest.

She looked back to his still sleeping face, watching as the early morning light began to drift into the windows, catching his profile. She looked to the strange way his nose sat, and wondered if he had broken it in his youth. Had his childhood been happy despite everything? Did he ever want Casterly Rock, or had those words he spoke to her so long ago still hold true?