When at last it slowed to a stop, the blade pointed at Littlefinger. He dismounted, shivering, his burned hand aching. What were you doing to that cat, boy? Myrcella asked again, sternly. The cloudless sky turned a deep purple, the color of an old bruise, then faded to black.
He squinted suspiciously at the eunuch. Jaime has left us in a bad way. The dogs and the horses won't go near them. I hope not.
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