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- Джордж Мартин
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"
To
whom
,
I
wonder
?
"
Tyrion
did
not
trust
Varys
,
though
there
was
no
denying
his
value
.
He
knew
things
,
beyond
a
doubt
.
"
Why
are
you
so
helpful
,
my
lord
Varys
?
"
he
asked
,
studying
the
man
’
s
soft
hands
,
the
bald
powdered
face
,
the
slimy
little
smile
.
"
You
are
the
Hand
.
I
serve
the
realm
,
the
king
,
and
you
.
"
"
As
you
served
Jon
Arryn
and
Eddard
Stark
?
"
"
I
served
Lord
Arryn
and
Lord
Stark
as
best
I
could
.
I
was
saddened
and
horrified
by
their
most
untimely
deaths
.
"
"
Think
how
I
feel
.
I
’
m
like
to
be
next
.
"
"
Oh
,
I
think
not
,
"
Varys
said
,
swirling
the
wine
in
his
cup
.
"
Power
is
a
curious
thing
,
my
lord
.
Perchance
you
have
considered
the
riddle
I
posed
you
that
day
in
the
inn
?
"
"
It
has
crossed
my
mind
a
time
or
two
,
"
Tyrion
admitted
.
"
The
king
,
the
priest
,
the
rich
man
—
who
lives
and
who
dies
?
Who
will
the
swordsman
obey
?
It
’
s
a
riddle
without
an
answer
,
or
rather
,
too
many
answers
.
All
depends
on
the
man
with
the
sword
.
"
"
And
yet
he
is
no
one
,
"
Varys
said
.
"
He
has
neither
crown
nor
gold
nor
favor
of
the
gods
,
only
a
piece
of
pointed
steel
.
"
"
That
piece
of
steel
is
the
power
of
life
and
death
.
"
"
Just
so
.
.
.
yet
if
it
is
the
swordsmen
who
rule
us
in
truth
,
why
do
we
pretend
our
kings
hold
the
power
?
Why
should
a
strong
man
with
a
sword
ever
obey
a
child
king
like
Joffrey
,
or
a
wine
-
sodden
oaf
like
his
father
?
"
