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- Джордж Мартин
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"
Commendable
,
"
Tyrion
admitted
,
breaking
a
large
brown
egg
that
reminded
him
unduly
of
the
Grand
Maester
’
s
bald
spotted
head
.
"
I
take
a
different
view
.
If
there
is
food
I
eat
it
,
in
case
there
is
none
on
the
morrow
.
"
He
smiled
.
"
Tell
me
,
are
your
ravens
early
risers
as
well
?
"
Pycelle
stroked
the
snowy
beard
that
flowed
down
his
chest
.
"
To
be
sure
.
Shall
I
send
for
quill
and
ink
after
we
have
eaten
?
"
"
No
need
.
"
Tyrion
laid
the
letters
on
the
table
beside
his
porridge
,
twin
parchments
tightly
rolled
and
sealed
with
wax
at
both
ends
.
"
Send
your
girl
away
,
so
we
can
talk
.
"
"
Leave
us
,
child
,
"
Pycelle
commanded
.
The
serving
girl
hurried
from
the
room
.
"
These
letters
,
now
.
.
.
"
"
For
the
eyes
of
Doran
Martell
,
Prince
of
Dorne
.
"
Tyrion
peeled
the
cracked
shell
away
from
his
egg
and
took
a
bite
.
It
wanted
salt
.
"
One
letter
,
in
two
copies
.
Send
your
swiftest
birds
.
The
matter
is
of
great
import
.
"
"
I
shall
dispatch
them
as
soon
as
we
have
broken
our
fast
.
"
"
Dispatch
them
now
.
Stewed
plums
will
keep
.
The
realm
may
not
.
Lord
Renly
is
leading
his
host
up
the
roseroad
,
and
no
one
can
say
when
Lord
Stannis
will
sail
from
Dragonstone
.
"
Pycelle
blinked
.
"
If
my
lord
prefers
—
"
"
He
does
.
"
"
I
am
here
to
serve
.
"
The
maester
pushed
himself
ponderously
to
his
feet
,
his
chain
of
office
clinking
softly
.
It
was
a
heavy
thing
,
a
dozen
maester
’
s
collars
threaded
around
and
through
each
other
and
ornamented
with
gemstones
.
And
it
seemed
to
Tyrion
that
the
gold
and
silver
and
platinum
links
far
outnumbered
those
of
baser
metals
.
