The scene shifted back from Harwin. The night wind swept into the Street of Silk through the mouth of the alley, carrying Flea Bottom's distinctive stench of rot.
Larys Strong leaned on his cane, still resting against the stone pillar opposite the entrance to "Mysaria." His gray eyes watched the half-open wooden door from beneath the shadow of his hood.
His breathing was soft, as soft as a cat's, and he seemed to have become one with the pillar.
Garwin Hightower remained squeezed beside him, but his body was as taut as a fully drawn bow.
Even wrapped in a coarse cloak, he could not conceal his excitement.
His hand rested on the sword hilt at his waist-the only weapon he had brought tonight, a short sword with a keenly honed edge that gleamed coldly in the faint streetlight.
"Why are you shaking?" Larys asked softly, sounding resigned, without turning his head.
"I'm not shaking." Garwin clenched his teeth and forced the words through them.
"Yes, you are."
Garwin drew a deep breath. His grip on the sword loosened, then tightened again.
He was not frightened. He was excited.
That mixture of tension, anticipation, and an indescribable thrill made his fingertips tremble.
He remembered what his eldest nephew, Aegon, had told him in the study yesterday afternoon.
"Uncle," the little prince had said, setting down his quill and looking up at him with those violet eyes, his tone as calm as if he were commenting on the pleasant weather. "Daemon may come to see Rhaenyra over the next few days. He wants to take her out-to Flea Bottom."
Garwin had frozen for a moment.
He opened his mouth to ask, "How do you know?" but swallowed the question before it escaped.
He no longer questioned his nephew's "dreams."
Ever since