Startled, the Goblin King looked up to Saeril. "Who allowed her to enter?!" There was no way he could forget her power, and that was the one thing that could strike fear into his being. "Shoot her down and tie her up with the rest of them!"

At this, Thorin finally intervened. "Wait!" 
As he'd hoped, this drew the Goblin King's attention. If only for a moment.
“Well, well, well, look who it is. Thorin son of Thrain, son of Thror; King under the Mountain.” The Goblin King was taunting, but he kept a wary eye on Saeril too. “Oh, but I’m forgetting, you don’t have a mountain. And you’re not a king. Which makes you nobody, really. I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head. Just the head, nothing attached. Perhaps you know of whom I speak, an old enemy of yours. A Pale Orc astride a White Warg.”

Now it was Thorin's turn to be shocked, but he refused to believe it. He couldn't. “Azog the Defiler was destroyed. He was slain in battle long ago.”

The Goblin King scoffed a harsh laugh. “So you think his defiling days are done, do you?” At that, he turned to the smallest goblin there. “Send word to the Pale Orc; tell him I have found his prize...and someone else that may be of interest to him." By 'someone else', he meant Saeril.