Chapter 117 – The Spider's Trick, and Peace Terms from Riverrun
"She isn't that clever," Tyrion said at last.
"If the queen truly possessed such brilliance, she wouldn't have driven herself into the mess she's in now."
He was still weighing how to respond—whether he truly ought to start guarding himself more carefully—when a sudden voice dropped from above.
Both men looked up.
A figure stood silhouetted against the dim light atop a rooftop.
"Bronn," the voice said lightly, "since when did you pick up the habit of gossiping behind people's backs?"
The figure leapt down from the roof and landed beside Bronn, reaching out to clap him on the shoulder.
Bronn froze. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, then he forced a stiff grin.
"Hey now… I was just saying I wouldn't mind climbing into the queen's bed myself, you know—"
Seeing Bronn grin like a monkey caught stealing fruit, Podrick didn't even bother responding. He turned his attention instead to the frowning dwarf.
"My guess is that this is the eunuch's handiwork," Podrick said calmly.
"But I can't swear the queen had no hand in it."
"I suspect the same," Tyrion replied, grimacing. "After all, we don't have proof."
That added yet another suspect to the list—one with both motive and opportunity.
And then there was the eunuch.
Ever since Tyrion had begun dealing with that spider, he'd never once seen through him. He didn't believe for a moment in the man's talk of loyalty to king and realm. If that were true, then how had Jon Arryn died?
Surely the eunuch hadn't been the hero in that tale.
And Eddard Stark?
"Damn it," Tyrion muttered. "If I'd known it would come to this, I'd have had his throat cut without hesitation."
Thinking of Shae again, he lashed out, kicking a loose stone across the ground. It skittered, bounced, and vanished into a sewer grate.
"At the time, it wouldn't have been clear whose throat got cut," Podrick replied dryly.
"Didn't you just say poison is the weapon of eunuchs and women? Some methods are ugly—but undeniably effective."
Cold water, poured straight over Tyrion's frustration.
Podrick lost interest in the what-ifs soon after. There was no point dwelling on what hadn't happened.
He turned and looked toward the massive, nest-like ruin crowning the top of Rhaenys's Hill.
"A boy told me that a group took the woman from that house and headed there," Podrick said. "I assumed you already knew."
Tyrion spun toward him, eyes wide.
"You're saying a child told you this?"
Suddenly, the eunuch's favorite phrase about "little birds" came to mind.
Podrick caught the meaning and shrugged. "It's better than having all of you wandering around here playing blind man's bluff. At this rate, you'd have turned Flea Bottom upside down."
That finally let Tyrion breathe easier. His expression sharpened as he turned to his captain.
"Call Shagga and the others back," he ordered. "Let's go meet him. I suspect he only wants something in return—and if it isn't unreasonable…"
"I doubt it'll be that simple," Bronn muttered.
Still, he turned and vanished into a side alley to relay the orders.
---
Before the Dragonpit was built, the hill of Rhaenys had been home to the Sept of Remembrance—once the most important sept in King's Landing.
During the uprising of the Faith Militant, Maegor the Cruel rode Balerion the Black Dread and reduced that magnificent sept to ash with dragonfire.
After the war, Maegor ordered an even greater structure raised on the same ground—a vast domed edifice, built for one purpose alone:
To house the dragons of House Targaryen.
Aegon II Targaryen's coronation had been held here.
Yet this magnificent structure met its end late in the Dance of the Dragons, when King's Landing fell to Queen Rhaenyra and the Storming of the Dragonpit tore the city apart.
It was an uprising that split King's Landing down the middle.
Led by the so-called Shepherd, tens of thousands of starving, frenzied smallfolk surged into the Dragonpit. There, they slaughtered the chained dragons Shrykos, Morghul, Tyraxes, and Dreamfyre, as well as Syrax, who arrived later in defense.
Trapped beneath stone walls and a massive dome, bound by heavy chains, the dragons could neither flee nor shield themselves with their wings. They fought like cornered bulls in Flea Bottom—horns, claws, and teeth alone.
Their dragonfire turned the pit into a living hell, incinerating hundreds upon hundreds of rioters.
Shrykos was the first to fall, slain by the axeman Hobb the Hewer.
Morghul was killed by the Burning Knight.
Tyraxes died as well, though six men and one woman later claimed the killing blow.
Only Dreamfyre broke free of her chains and took to the air, killing more rioters than all the others combined. But a final crossbow bolt struck her eye, driving the half-blinded she-dragon mad. She beat her wings and smashed into the dome above.
The impact brought half the dome crashing down, burying her beneath it.
Thousands of smallfolk perished in that riot. When it was over, the Dragonpit lay in ruins—its dome collapsed, reduced to scorched rubble, a blackened wound in the heart of the city.
For more than a century now, its great bronze doors had remained sealed. The soot-stained ruins stood like a scar embedded in King's Landing itself. The dome was never repaired; the interior had rotted into damp decay.
Now Tyrion stood before it.
With some three hundred men, he had surrounded the ruins from all sides—this place that had witnessed both the glory and the downfall of House Targaryen.
"I don't want a single living soul to leave this place," the dwarf said coldly.
The hill tribesmen roared and surged forward in packs.
The sellswords grinned, scattering to search the pit.
The Hand of the King had promised a tempting reward—only one condition attached: bring back the whore alive.
Podrick, following along with clear interest, raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?" he drawled. "Is House Lannister planning a massacre?"
Truth be told, he rarely saw Tyrion bare his killing intent so openly. The dwarf usually drowned his anger in wine—or kept it sharp and controlled.
"Sometimes," Tyrion replied evenly, "violence really is the best solution."
"And since you didn't kill the eunuch," he added without pause, "there's no reason I can't do it myself."
He stepped into the ruins as he spoke.
Podrick shrugged and flashed him a thumbs-up.
"Congratulations on grasping the fundamental truth of the world—bigger fists make the rules."
Bronn, stroking the prickly stubble on his chin, muttered, "This reminds me of the first time I met that eunuch… the riddle he left in that inn."
"You're not wrong," he added after a beat.
The Dragonpit, vast as it once was, was now little more than a hollow shell. Tyrion searched patiently.
An hour passed.
They found nothing.
The three men who had once fought side by side on the Green Fork now looked green themselves.
"Well," Bronn said at last, his expression complicated, "Varys played us all."
"Not entirely empty-handed," Podrick said, half-laughing, half-grimacing, as he looked at the two dozen or so prostitutes and clients herded together by the hill tribesmen and sellswords.
Shae wasn't among them.
They'd found eight prostitutes instead.
The place was spacious—no need to crowd, no need to hunt for a place to lie down. Business was good here.
But that wasn't Podrick's point.
One of the prostitutes' customers had stepped on a rotten floorboard mid-transaction, plunging both of them into a cellar. Tyrion's men had hauled them back out—and in the process, uncovered something else.
Wildfire.
Hundreds of jars at least, glowing an oily green in the torchlight.
When Shagga wandered too close with his torch, Tyrion screamed himself hoarse.
"Gods damn it! Keep that torch away—never let me see it near those things again!"
Shagga, wearing the cloak Podrick had stripped off Littlefinger, scowled but backed away.
The glass jars shimmered in the darkness—dangerous, seductive. Power, waiting to be grasped.
Only when the torch was safely distant did the tension ease from Tyrion's mind. He had brushed death's edge and knew it.
At this point, Shae barely registered.
"Keep searching for her," Tyrion said, exhaustion heavy in his voice. "I'll double the reward—again—until she's found."
"Everyone out. Leave a hundred men behind to guard this place."
"And send for the alchemists—now. Make them deal with this wildfire."
"Fail me, and I'll take their heads."
They descended westward along the Silent Sisters' Street, toward the Alchemists' Guild.
The mood was grim.
They had been led on a wild goose chase—Varys had drawn them away with a feint. Shae was gone, and likely beyond their reach for now.
Whether she was already out of the city—or lost somewhere among hundreds of thousands—finding her would be like searching the sea for a single drop of blood.
Tyrion knew this. All he could do now was wait.
Wait for the spider to reveal his hand.
As they reached the base of Rhaenys's Hill, a gold cloak rode hard toward them.
All three men glanced in his direction, uneasy.
The guardsman dismounted and called out, breathless:
"Ser Jacelyn Bywater reports urgent business at the Gate of the Gods! He orders me to find Ser Payne and the Hand at once!"
"Ironhand?" Podrick immediately recalled the man—one of the City Watch captains, famous for his metal prosthetic. Podrick had recently promoted him to deputy.
"What's so urgent?" Tyrion demanded.
The guardsman hesitated. "It's… better if you come in person, my lords."
Tyrion and Podrick exchanged a look.
With a weary sigh, Tyrion muttered, "Very well. Today's been miserable enough—let's hope this is good news."
They split the company. One detachment went to the Alchemists' Guild; the rest rode to the Gate of the Gods.
The market square beyond was eerily empty.
Ser Jacelyn waited there. He raised his iron hand in salute and hurried forward.
"Your lordship—your cousin, Ser Cleos Frey, has arrived from Riverrun," he said quickly, turning to Tyrion. "He bears a letter from Robb Stark—under a banner of peace."
Podrick didn't know Cleos Frey, but Riverrun and Robb Stark told him everything.
No wonder the messenger hadn't dared speak freely.
"Gods love their cruel jokes," Tyrion thought.
"Peace terms?" he said aloud, eyes widening.
"That's what he claims," Ser Jacelyn confirmed.
Tyrion forgot Shae in an instant.
"My dear cousin," he said briskly. "Take me to him—at once."
Cleos Frey was being held in a windowless guardroom atop the gate tower.
The moment the door opened, he leapt to his feet, beaming.
"Tyrion! I'm so glad to see you!"
"Cousin," Tyrion replied dryly, embracing him, his gaze already drifting to the letter on the table.