A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

split with a thunderous
crack
beneath the heel
of Shagga’s boot. Pieces went flying inward, and Tyrion heard a woman’s gasp of
fear. Shagga hacked the door apart with three great blows of his axe and kicked
his way through the ruins. Timett followed, and then Tyrion, stepping gingerly
over the splinters. The fire had burned down to a few glowing embers, and shadows
lay thick across the bedchamber. When Timett ripped the heavy curtains off the
bed, the naked serving girl stared up with wide white eyes. “Please, my
lords,” she pleaded, “don’t hurt me.” She cringed away from Shagga, flushed
and fearful, trying to cover her charms with her
hands and coming up a hand short.
    â€œGo,” Tyrion told her. “It’s not you we want.”
    â€œShagga wants this woman.”
    â€œShagga wants every whore in this city of whores,” complained Timett son of
Timett.
    â€œYes,” Shagga said, unabashed. “Shagga would give her a strong
child.”
    â€œIf she wants a strong child, she’ll know whom to seek,” Tyrion said.
“Timett, see her out . . . gently, if you would.”
    The Burned Man pulled the girl from the bed and half marched, half dragged her
across the chamber. Shagga watched them go, mournful as a puppy. The girl
stumbled over the shattered door and out into the hall, helped along by a firm
shove from Timett. Above their heads, the ravens were screeching.
    Tyrion dragged the soft blanket off the bed, uncovering Grand Maester
Pycelle beneath. “Tell me, does the Citadel approve of you bedding the serving
wenches, Maester?”
    The old man was as naked as the girl, though he made a markedly less attractive
sight. For once, his heavy-lidded eyes were open wide. “W-what is the meaning
of this? I am an old man, your loyal servant . . .”
    Tyrion hoisted himself onto the bed. “So loyal that you sent only one of my
letters to Doran Martell. The other you gave to my sister.”
    â€œN-no,” squealed Pycelle. “No, a falsehood, I swear it, it was not me.
Varys, it was Varys, the Spider, I warned you—”
    â€œDo all maesters lie so poorly? I told Varys that I was giving Prince Doran my
nephew Tommen to foster. I told Littlefinger that I planned to wed Myrcella to
Lord Robert of the Eyrie. I told no one that I had offered Myrcella to the
Dornish . . . that truth was only in the letter I entrusted to
you.
”
    Pycelle clutched for a corner of the blanket. “Birds are lost, messages stolen
or sold . . . it was Varys, there are things I might tell you
of that eunuch that would chill your blood . . .”
    â€œMy lady prefers my blood hot.”
    â€œMake no mistake, for every secret the eunuch whispers in your ear, he holds
seven back. And Littlefinger, that one . . .”
    â€œI know all about Lord Petyr. He’s almost as untrustworthy as you. Shagga, cut
off his manhood and feed it to the goats.”
    Shagga hefted the huge double-bladed axe. “There are no

goats, Halfman.”
    â€œMake do.”
    Roaring, Shagga leapt forward. Pycelle shrieked and wet the bed, urine spraying
in all directions as he tried to scramble back out of reach. The wildling
caught him by the end of his billowy white beard and hacked off three-quarters
of it with a single slash of the axe.
    â€œTimett, do you suppose our friend will be more forthcoming without those
whiskers to hide behind?” Tyrion used a bit of the sheet to wipe the piss off
his boots.
    â€œHe will tell the truth soon.” Darkness pooled in the empty pit of Timett’s
burned eye. “I can smell the stink of his fear.”
    Shagga tossed a handful of hair down to the rushes, and seized what beard was
left. “Hold still, Maester,” urged Tyrion. “When Shagga gets angry, his
hands shake.”
    â€œShagga’s hands never shake,” the huge man said indignantly, pressing the
great crescent blade under Pycelle’s quivering chin and sawing through another
tangle of beard.
    â€œHow long have you been spying for my sister?” Tyrion asked.
    Pycelle’s breathing was rapid and shallow. “All I did, I did for House
Lannister.” A sheen of sweat covered the broad dome of the old man’s brow, and
wisps of white hair clung to his wrinkled skin.
“Always . . . for years . . . your lord