A Vow Without Honor

The Escape

Tommen nodded and Myrcella gestured to the Kingsguard. Ser Loras stepped forward with a sheathed sword in hand. It had a lion's hilt with rubied jewels for eyes.

Her breath caught.

Myrcella took the sword and gave it to Tommen in exchange for his kitten as he needed both hands to hold the thing properly.

"Uncle Jaime told me this used to be your father's sword," Tommen said, face twisting in concentration. "As the king, I declare it be returned to you, for your sons and their sons."

Myra gently took the sword up in her hands. It was a little smaller than its twin and just as light, its metal rippling red when she inched it out of the scabbard.

Joffrey had named it Widow's Wail like the cruel boy he was. It was a harsh and loathsome name. Her family's legacy, as broken as it was, deserved something more fitting, an honorable title. But no words came to her now that could fit such a daunting task.

"Are you certain?"

Tommen nodded. "I am the king. This is what I want."

Myra felt a smile tugging at her lips when she looked to Myrcella. "Does your grandfather know?"

The princess shrugged. "He will eventually."

She could see why it was Loras who had held it. He and Margaery probably thought it was a splendid idea, and spent the evening laughing over it. Tywin's reaction would certainly be a sight to see, and thankfully she would be long gone.

Hugging the little king, Myra loathed to let him go. While Tywin would be in charge until he was older, Tommen would no longer have the chance to be a child. He would have to learn how to lead, and how to make decisions that would break an ordinary man. Slowly yet surely, the boy with the large smiles would disappear, and she hated it.

When the children retreated to Jaime's side – putting the first smile she had seen in a few days on his face – Myra took the opportunity to enter the carriage. She hadn't wanted to be stuck in such a cumbersome vehicle – she could still recall how often the queen's had been stuck when they left Winterfell – but appearances were everything, another reason to be grateful for leaving. At least she wouldn't have to put on a façade then.

Tyrion was already inside, bundled up in furs and looking absolutely miserable. She wasn't certain if he was hungover, still drunk, or in the sad little space between, but the smile that had been on her face quickly died at the sight of him.

She sat across from her good-brother, watching him closely, wondering if he was even aware of her presence.

"Just say it," the lump of fur spat.

"Say what?"

"Are you certain you want to come with us?" Tyrion said, his voice pitched high in a terrible impression of her. His voice cracked and he coughed.

"If you're so certain I'd ask, then why do you need me to say it?" Myra asked, leaning back. The seats were covered in deep, down cushions, but she'd never sleep given how much the carriage would rock. "You don't have anywhere else to go, and I know there are things you need to take care of, just-"

"Don't murder your husband in his sleep?" Tyrion finished, burrowing further into the pile. He tipped over then, curling up in the seat, facing away from her. "Don't worry, my lady. Despite what they do to me, I'm not one for murdering Lannisters."

The silence that followed stretched for so long, Myra thought Tyrion might have fallen asleep, but his voice returned to her.

"I'm going to find her," he mumbled, nearly unintelligible. "The gods be damned, I will find my wife."