A Vow Without Honor

The Departures

Myra

The day Myra Stark departed King's Landing had dawned bright and clear. A warm breeze had risen from the south, perfect for guiding her ship from its harbor, and the seas had calmed so that from a distance, Blackwater Bay appeared to be nothing but glass. It seemed that even nature approved of her leaving.

She might have taken it as a good sign, once, but she knew that all the beauty was only a façade. A storm lingered beneath the calm, raging with strength enough to break the kingdom in two, and here she stood on one of the visible cracks, waiting for the inevitable.

There were no lulls to this storm. One moment, she had been a girl hiding in fear of a king, and now her father would task her to face his brother, one infinitely more disagreeable if the words were true, and convince him to come back to the very place he fled.

It would take an army to drag her back to King's Landing, and she did not carry the secrets Stannis Baratheon did.

Or rather, she would not for much longer.

Word of Tyrion Lannister's capture would spread like wildfire across every village. After all, there was only one imp who could dress as he did and call forth enough ire to have as many swords pointed at him as Varys had implied.

Was it fate, Myra wondered, that he and her mother happened upon the inn at the same time? Were they bound to meet with disaster?

She looked to the dagger in her hands. It was not overly ornate, but the dragonbone hilt and Valyrian steel made it nearly invaluable. A man in King's Landing could live comfortably after selling it, if he were ever lucky enough to come into possession of it.

And a simple man had come to hold it. He had taken in to her home and carved open her mother's hands with it; he had meant to open her brother's throat with it. And for what? It was an answer they still did not have, and all the proof that existed to Tyrion's treachery was the word of a glorified brothel owner, a man whom she neither trusted nor believed.

That was why her father had entrusted it to her. It was all they had, and in a place like King's Landing, things never stayed secret or safe. With her, the dagger would remain, close at hand, until it was needed again. And she had no doubt Stannis might find interest in it. He was no fan of the Lannisters either; he might find the situation to be more of an...opportunity than others.

The thought left a foul taste in her mouth.

Myra wrapped the dagger back in one of her dresses, taking care not to cut herself. Here she was, desperate to flee the game, and instead she had been thrust deeper into its clutches, where lives rather than pride were at risk. If she was her father's only hope at remedying things, Myra was afraid things were about to get terribly worse.

She took a moment to watch her trembling hand before slamming her trunk shut.

"None of these dresses will work for you back home," Syrena mused behind her, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Myra's silence. She could guess at which. "I have never been so far north, but given how warm all of you are here, I expect sleeveless is not the choice most ladies would go with."

"And do you find it cold here?" Myra asked, turning to the handmaiden. She had laid all the unpacked clothes on the bed, sorting them by weight and even color. Syrena was certainly organized, Myra would give her that.

"When I first came, it did not stop raining for a week," Syrena replied, a soft smile gracing her tan features. "I had never seen so much before; I thought it might flood the world and drown us. Or me, at least. But the cooler air did not bother me much, so long as I was dry. Nights in Dorne can be just as savage as the days."