"I'm fine. There's no need to panic." Tyrion's voice was calm and steady as he took a crossbow from a trembling guard, checking the string's tension to ensure it was ready to fire. "Bronn, take a few quick and seasoned men with you. You're coming with me."
"Everyone outside—except those fighting the fire—surround the Tower of the Hand!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the night.
At once, the soldiers moved. Their boots pounded against stone, mingling with the roar and crackle of the blaze. Tyrion strode into the Tower of the Hand, the firelight from outside flooding through the windows, turning his shadow crimson—as if he were cloaked in the red of House Lannister. The fire's crackling sounded like a battle song driving him forward.
As he neared the corner that led to the Hand's chambers, Tyrion raised a hand for silence and pressed himself against the wall. From ahead came the sharp, echoing sound of someone pounding on a door.
"Open up! My lady! We're the guards!"
They weren't guards. They were hired killers—sent either to murder him or to take the Stark girl.
How many were there? Three? Five? The narrow corridor was dark and filled with echoes. Tyrion slipped around the corner, dropped to one knee, and aimed his crossbow. Two Gold Cloaks rushed up behind him, taking positions and readying their bows.
Bronn hurled a torch forward. In the flickering light, their enemies' armor gleamed—not Gold Cloaks, and certainly not Lannister men.
"Fire!"
Tyrion's order rang out. The hiss of bolts cutting through air was followed by the dull thud of impact. One man dropped instantly, another fell to his knees, clutching his bleeding thigh and howling.
Two down. Four in total.
Bronn drew a short sword and stepped in front of Tyrion. "Lust Demon," he said with a smirk. "Leave the rest to us."
Bronn moved fast. The narrow corridor favored his blade. Tyrion barely caught the motion before Bronn's sword bit deep into the shoulder of the man ahead. The assassin screamed, blood spraying across Bronn's chest.
The one behind him tried to draw his sword, but the door burst open, slamming straight into his jaw. The poor fool crumpled to the floor just as the "mother bear" barreled out. Brienne pinned him beneath her, those hands—meant for stitching and embroidery—now hardened into iron fists. One punch. Two. Three.
Perhaps the man who'd hired them had said casually when giving the order, "You'll only be facing two young, helpless girls."
Tyrion stepped aside as two more Gold Cloaks ran up. One pinned the wounded assassin to the floor while the other helped Bronn wrench his blade free.
"Damn it, this kind of sword hasn't been used in ages," Bronn muttered.
"You've spent too much time lying in brothels, forgetting how to keep your sword sharp," Tyrion said, kicking one of the corpses. One assassin was dead from a chest shot; the one hit in the leg kept whimpering for mercy; the man Bronn had struck was being dragged away by the Gold Cloaks; and the one Brienne had pounded senseless was clearly finished.
The warrior woman was kneeling, panting heavily. She still wore her chainmail, her hair damp and clinging to her forehead.
"You followed orders—you didn't open the door." Tyrion pulled her up. "Thank you."
"It was for the Lady's safety," Brienne replied, standing and stepping back into the room. "These men were clearly after her."
"That one—I know him." Bronn lowered his voice, nodding toward the wounded assassin groaning nearby. "He's a gutter killer from the Flea Bottom slums. Does all sorts of dirty work. Cheap, too—three silver stags and he'll slit anyone's throat you point him at."
"How much, then," Tyrion asked, "to hire him for a job inside the Tower of the Hand?"
Bronn shrugged, his tone flat. "No more than five silver stags. The Tower of the Hand might be a delicate place, but to him, it's just another trough to feed from. For men like that, as long as the coin's good, anywhere can be a battlefield, and any job's worth taking."
A breathless messenger came rushing up the stairs. "My lord, we've caught a suspicious woman downstairs."
"Bring her up," Tyrion said. He already knew who it would be.
It was Shae.
The poor girl knelt in the center of a ring of men. She'd probably been in this position before—but the cost this time was far steeper.
"Who paid you?" Tyrion asked quietly. "Only a handful know the Stark girls are staying in the Tower of the Hand."
"My lord, it was you. You paid me," Shae stammered, trembling. "I work for you."
"Bronn, she's lying. Give her two slaps—help her remember."
The sellsword didn't hesitate. He strode forward, grabbed the prostitute by the hair, and yanked her up from the floor with brutal force. Her screams and pleas were drowned out by the cold efficiency of his blows.
Smack. Smack.
Tyrion felt eyes on him. He turned and caught sight of the two Stark girls peering through the narrow crack of the door.
"Brienne, close it," Tyrion said. "What comes next isn't for noble eyes."
As the door shut, he turned back to Shae. "Now tell me, whore—can you remember who paid you?"
"My lord... please, my lord, have mercy," Shae sobbed, collapsing onto the floor. "It was Lord Baelish... it was him... he forced me..."
"Where is he now?"
"I don't know, my lord... please..." Shae wept harder. "I brought you magic... I am your most loyal servant..."
"No, Shae," Tyrion said coolly. "You're a key. A pawn of the witch. In your bones, you're a whore—willing to sell anyone, for any price. I gave you a chance, but you failed the test. What do they call that? The inevitability of history."
Littlefinger never left loose ends. Just like Varys. Unless you caught him yourself, chasing leads through others was useless. Still, from how sloppy this attempt had been, he must be cornered.
"Bronn. Hang her." Tyrion's voice was cold. "Do it here."
Before Shae could beg for mercy, Bronn looped a belt around her neck. Another Gold Cloak helped him, and within seconds, they'd strung her up from a wall sconce.
Her eyes rolled back. She struggled briefly, then went still.
"Bury her," Tyrion said quietly. "And don't defile the body."