Tyrith touched his daughter's cheek and shook his head to silence her. Not here, not in the open. "The maester will look you over, and we'll get you to your bed then. Just lay still, sweetling. No talking." At least, not here.
Someone had pushed her, and had known who they were pushing. There would be blood paid for this. But who would do it? Why? A message to the Hand of the King, or something else entirely? Questions without answers were questions that would wait. First came seeing that Toria was in no danger from being moved... Where in seven hells was the Maester? Tyrith glanced up to see no one returning down the hall. Warrior take it, they couldn't stay here.
His men came down the stairs with heavy tread, but the look on his captain's face told Tyrith all he needed to know. Something was indeed more than amiss. Wait here for the gods knew what or leave at once and risk Toria's injuries being made worse?
Tyrith sighed. "Never mind the maester," he said in a tightly controlled tone. Battles and tactics, odds of victory, routes for retreats were in his thoughts. "We're away." He looked down at Toria and his eyes were troubled. "Sweetling, we have to move now."
One of the younger guards came forward but Tyrith shook his head. His daughter's welfare was his doing- if she was brought further harm by the movement, it would be at his hand. He'd be too tempted to blame the guards unnecessarily otherwise. "All of you, swords out. I'll take her."
Gently as he could, he lifted his daughter in both arms, shifting so her head was against his shoulder as he rose to his feet.