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Tyrion

           Hehaddoneallhecouldtofeedthehungrycityhe’dsetseveralhundredcarpenterstobuildingfishingboatsinplaceofcatapults,openedthekingswoodtoanyhunterwhodaredtocrosstheriver,evensentgoldcloaksforagingtothewestandsouthyethestillsawaccusingeyeseverywhereherode.Thelitter’scurtainsshieldedhimfromthat,andbesidesgavehimleisuretothink.

           AstheywoundtheirslowwaydowntwistyShadowblackLanetothefootofAegon’sHighHill,Tyrionreflectedontheeventsofthemorning.Hissister’sirehadledhertooverlookthetruesignificanceofStannisBaratheon’sletter.Withoutproof,hisaccusationswerenothing;whatmatteredwasthathehadnamedhimselfaking.AndwhatwillRenlymakeofthat?TheycouldnotbothsittheIronThrone.

           Idly,hepushedthecurtainbackafewinchestopeeroutatthestreets.BlackEarsrodeonbothsidesofhim,theirgrislynecklacesloopedabouttheirthroats,whileBronnwentinfronttocleartheway.Hewatchedthepassersbywatchinghim,andplayedalittlegamewithhimself,tryingtosorttheinformersfromtherest.Theoneswholookthemostsuspiciousarelikelyinnocent,hedecided.It’stheoneswholookinnocentIneedtobeware.

           HisdestinationwasbehindthehillofRhaenys,andthestreetswerecrowded.Almostanhourhadpassedbeforethelitterswayedtoastop.Tyrionwasdozing,buthewokeabruptlywhenthemotionceased,rubbedthesandfromhiseyes,andacceptedBronn’shandtoclimbdown.

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