In this situation, Cersei finally agreed to send Myrcella to Dorne today.
The atmosphere at the farewell was stiflingly heavy.
On the docks, Cersei held her daughter tightly, tears silently streaming down her face. Myrcella, unaware of the gravity of the moment, wept only because she had to part from her mother. Beside her stood her escort, Ser Arys of the Kingsguard.
Littlefinger, Petyr Baelish, lingered nearby, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. He too would depart from the harbor that day, boarding a ship bound for the other side of the Narrow Sea—to fulfill Tyrion's grain procurement mission, and to seek... greater opportunities.
Tyrion watched as Littlefinger boarded a swift Lyseni merchant vessel, his gaze dark and thoughtful.
That sly fox...
He sneered inwardly. He knew Littlefinger was anything but harmless. The dagger. The deception. How he'd tricked Catelyn into accusing him. Every one of those debts, Tyrion kept carefully tallied.
But now was not the time to settle accounts. War loomed on every horizon, and King's Landing needed stability more than retribution. Besides, without proof, Littlefinger could deny everything.
After sending Myrcella away, Cersei's temper grew even darker and more volatile.
On the road back to the Red Keep, she and Tyrion rode in separate litters, guarded by a small escort of Kingsguard and a detachment of newly recruited Gold Cloaks under Bronn's command.
Hook Lane was narrow and foul, flanked by crumbling stone houses that blocked most of the light. The air hung thick with the stench of rot, refuse, and human waste.
At first, the only sounds were the steady thud of the litter-bearers' feet and the soft clink of armor.
Then, suddenly, everything changed.
From the shadows and broken doorways, they began to emerge—ragged, hollow-eyed figures, moving like starving hyenas drawn by the scent of blood. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes glinting with hunger and long-festered hatred.
They recognized the ornate litter. The shining white cloaks. The Gold Cloaks' armor.
"Look! It's the Queen's litter!"
"That fucking bitch!"
"The Mad King's daughter!"
"She rides in luxury while our children starve!"
"It's the Lannisters! They raised the grain prices! They brought this war!"
The whispers swelled into a storm of rage.
The crowd thickened, pressing in from both sides until the alley was choked with bodies. Their fury hung heavy in the air, their eyes burning with malice.
They dared not rush the sharp blades of the Kingsguard or the Gold Cloaks' spears, but their venomous stares wrapped around every litter like a tightening noose.
"Protect the Queen!"
Ser Preston Greenfield's shout cut through the chaos as he drew his sword. The white knights closed ranks, forming a wall around Cersei's litter, blades raised and gleaming.
Bronn unsheathed his sword as well, barking orders at his nervous recruits. "Form ranks! Gods damn it, raise those spears! Anyone who comes near—stab them dead!"
The Gold Cloaks stumbled into position, their hands shaking, their eyes wide with fear. The press of the mob was suffocating. Some of the younger men's legs trembled beneath their armor.
Inside the litter, Cersei heard the shouts, the curses, the swell of hatred outside.
She tore open the curtain, peering out—and saw a sea of faces twisted by hunger and hate staring back at her.
"Quick! Quick! Leave this place!"
She shrieked at the porters and guards.
"Stand aside! By the king's command! Anyone who touches the Queen's litter shall die!" Sandor Clegane tried to disperse the crowd with authority, swinging his sword in a bluff.
But his gesture only poured fuel on the fire.
"The king? That little bastard?!"
"Kill him! Kill that bastard king!"
"Kill that bitch!"
A rotten vegetable root came flying from somewhere and smashed against the top of Cersei's litter with a dull thud.
Stones, mud, and rotting leaves rained down on the guard squad. The situation unraveled in an instant.
"Protect the Queen! Force a way out!" Meryn Trant bellowed, trying to lead a break through.
From another litter Joffrey roared, "Useless! All of you useless fools! Kill them! Slaughter every last one of these vile maggots! Chop off their heads and hang them on the city walls!"
His order acted like a maddening catalyst.
A few eager new Gold Cloaks—hungry, or blindly obeying the new king—waved their swords in fear and chaos and actually cut into the nearest stone-throwing crowd.
Those strikes set off the mob's long-smothered, volcanic rage.
"They're killing people! Lannister dogs are killing people!"
"Fight them!"
"Loot! Take that bitch's things for food!"
Desperate shouts drowned out the Kingsguard's commands.
Like a breached dam, the mob—fired by hunger and hate—burst through the fragile lines of the Gold Cloaks.
The Kingsguard were elite, but in that narrow alley, surrounded, their blades could not be used. They were driven apart and scattered in moments, fighting for their own survival.
"Detour! Quick! Head for the Mud Lane!"
Tyrion watched in terror from his litter and shouted at the bearers and the few Kingsguard still lucid.
He knew Hook Lane was lost. They had to get out immediately.
The procession turned clumsily and charged toward the Mud Lane.
Cersei's litter flew along, jolting like a small boat in a storm.
She clung to the interior rail, her face drained of color, eyes full of pure fear.
She could hear the mob's roars and the pounding of footsteps closing in behind them.
Tyrion's litter followed close.
He threw back the curtain and saw Joffrey's face, twisted with rage and a hint of fear, still shouting "Kill them all!" from the other litter's window. Fury flared hot at his temples.
"Shut your filthy mouth, Joffrey!"
Tyrion thrust his head out and roared toward Joffrey's litter. "Look at what you've done! You're no better than Aerys the Third! Rule through fear and slaughter? You'll turn all of King's Landing against you! Do you want to end up hanging from the city walls?!"
Cersei heard Tyrion's shout—"Aerys the Third!"—and violently tore open the curtain of her litter. Her emerald eyes locked onto Tyrion, blazing with hatred and madness. "Tyrion! This is all your doing! You spread the rumors! You brought the mob! Die! May the gods curse you to a wretched death!"
In that instant, she was utterly certain this was Tyrion's plot.
He wanted to destroy her and her children.
The moment her curse left her lips, chaos erupted.
From a dark alley beside the Mud Lane, more than a dozen rioters—clearly lying in wait—burst out and lunged at Cersei's litter.
"Ah—!" Cersei's scream tore through the air.
Four burly men seized the litter poles while others ripped at the curtains.
"Grab that bitch!"
"Drag her out!"
The bearers were thrown to the ground. The Kingsguard and Gold Cloaks were swarmed by the mob from behind, pinned down and unable to rescue her in time.
Amid Cersei's desperate screams, the ornate litter was lifted bodily by a dozen frenzied rioters, spun around, and rushed into the shadowed dead-end alley.
Tyrion's eyes widened in horror, his heart nearly stopping.
He leapt from his litter and bellowed at the equally stunned Bronn. "Bronn! Take men—chase them! Bring her back! Now!"
He couldn't bear to imagine what would happen to Cersei in the hands of a mob driven mad by hunger, hatred, and rumor.
A fate worse than death.
Bronn understood at once, his face hardening, eyes flashing with deadly resolve.
"Follow me! All who can fight, with me!"
He charged into the reeking, dark alley with the few Kingsguard and Gold Cloaks still able to move.
Tyrion stood frozen, surrounded by the wreckage-strewn street and the chaos that still raged around him.
Joffrey had stepped down from his litter too, face pale, seemingly struck dumb by the sudden turn of events, momentarily forgetting to shout.
Tyrion's heart sank into an abyss. Time seemed to freeze—each second stretching into eternity.
He didn't know how long had passed. Minutes, or hours.
Then Bronn appeared at the alley's mouth.
His tall frame looked exhausted, his leather armor smeared with mud, blood, and unidentifiable filth.
The usual smirk was gone. He stopped before Tyrion, his voice hoarse and low.
"Found her. Alive, but..."
Two soldiers staggered out, holding up Cersei.
Her once-fine gown hung in shreds, only a few scraps of cloth clinging to her body, exposing bruised skin marred with claw marks and bite wounds.
She seemed numb to cold and pain, trembling only out of instinct.
Her head drooped limply, her empty eyes fixed on the ground, pupils unfocused.
The face that once enchanted the Seven Kingdoms was now bruised and streaked with tears, blood trickling from a split lip.
What chilled the heart most was her expression—not grief, not rage, but emptiness.
It was as if her soul had been torn away, leaving only a hollow shell, defiled and destroyed.
When Tyrion's eyes fell upon her ravaged form, his stomach churned.
Cersei seemed to sense his gaze. Her head lifted stiffly, and her hollow green eyes turned vaguely in his direction. Her voice came out in broken, rasping whispers.
"...monster... killed... me..."
"...all... monsters..."
Then, as if drained of her final strength, her head fell to the side. She collapsed, limp in the soldier's arms.
Tyrion stood motionless, his small shadow stretching long in the dying light.
He stared at the hellish scene before him—his sister's ruin, the stench of blood and filth thick in the air—as a cold numbness swallowed him whole.