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- Джордж Мартин
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Pycelle
moved
so
slowly
that
Tyrion
had
time
to
finish
his
egg
and
taste
the
plums
—
overcooked
and
watery
,
to
his
taste
—
before
the
sound
of
wings
prompted
him
to
rise
.
He
spied
the
raven
,
dark
in
the
dawn
sky
,
and
turned
briskly
toward
the
maze
of
shelves
at
the
far
end
of
the
room
.
The
maester
’
s
medicines
made
an
impressive
display
;
dozens
of
pots
sealed
with
wax
,
hundreds
of
stoppered
vials
,
as
many
milkglass
bottles
,
countless
jars
of
dried
herbs
,
each
container
neatly
labeled
in
Pycelle
’
s
precise
hand
.
An
orderly
mind
,
Tyrion
reflected
,
and
indeed
,
once
you
puzzled
out
the
arrangement
,
it
was
easy
to
see
that
every
potion
had
its
place
.
And
such
interesting
things
.
He
noted
sweetsleep
and
nightshade
,
milk
of
the
poppy
,
the
tears
of
Lys
,
powdered
greycap
,
wolfsbane
and
demon
’
s
dance
,
basilisk
venom
,
blindeye
,
widow
’
s
blood
.
.
.
Standing
on
his
toes
and
straining
upward
,
he
managed
to
pull
a
small
dusty
bottle
off
the
high
shelf
.
When
he
read
the
label
,
he
smiled
and
slipped
it
up
his
sleeve
.
He
was
back
at
the
table
peeling
another
egg
when
Grand
Maester
Pycelle
came
creeping
down
the
stairs
.
"
It
is
done
,
my
lord
.
"
The
old
man
seated
himself
.
"
A
matter
like
this
.
.
.
best
done
promptly
,
indeed
,
indeed
.
.
.
of
great
import
,
you
say
?
"
"
Oh
,
yes
.
"
The
porridge
was
too
thick
,
Tyrion
felt
,
and
wanted
butter
and
honey
.
To
be
sure
,
butter
and
honey
were
seldom
seen
in
King
’
s
Landing
of
late
,
though
Lord
Gyles
kept
them
well
supplied
in
the
castle
.
Half
of
the
food
they
ate
these
days
came
from
his
lands
or
Lady
Tanda
’
s
.
Rosby
and
Stokeworth
lay
near
the
city
to
the
north
,
and
were
yet
untouched
by
war
.
"
The
Prince
of
Dorne
,
himself
.
Might
I
ask
.
.
.
"
"
Best
not
.
"
"
As
you
say
.
"
Pycelle
’
s
curiosity
was
so
ripe
that
Tyrion
could
almost
taste
it
.
"
Mayhaps
.
.
.
the
king
’
s
council
.
.
.
"
Tyrion
tapped
his
wooden
spoon
against
the
edge
of
the
bowl
.
"
The
council
exists
to
advise
the
king
,
Maester
.
"
