Under these circumstances, Cersei finally agreed to send Myrcella to Dorne that day.
The atmosphere at the farewell was suffocatingly oppressive.
On the docks, Cersei held her daughter tightly, tears slipping silently down her face.
Myrcella understood nothing and only cried at having to leave her mother. Beside her stood her Kingsguard escort, Ser Alliser.
Littlefinger, Petyr Baelish, stood to one side, smiling.
He too would board a ship at the harbor that day and cross the Narrow Sea to carry out Tyrion's grain-buying mission, while also searching for... greater opportunities.
Tyrion watched Littlefinger board a swift ship flying the flag of a Lysene merchant vessel, his gaze inscrutable.
That sly fox-
Tyrion sneered inwardly.
He knew Littlefinger was nowhere near as harmless as he appeared. The matter of that dagger, the way Littlefinger had tricked Catelyn into accusing him-
Tyrion kept account of all those debts.
But now was not the time to move against him.
With the clouds of war gathering, King's Landing needed stability, not a member of the Small Council thrown into prison.
Besides, he had no solid evidence. Littlefinger could deny everything.
After sending Myrcella away, Cersei grew even gloomier and more irritable.
On the way back to the Red Keep, Tyrion and Cersei rode in separate litters, escorted by the Kingsguard and a small squad of newly recruited Gold Cloaks led by Bronn.
Hook Street was narrow and filthy, with tall, dilapidated stone houses on either side blocking most of the sunlight.
The air reeked of rubbish and excrement.
At first, things were fairly quiet, with only the heavy footsteps of the litter bearers and the faint clink of armor.
But soon, the situation took a sharp turn for the worse.
It seemed to begin in some corner. Ragged, sallow, emaciated people emerged from