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- Джордж Мартин
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"
Just
so
,
"
said
Pycelle
,
"
and
the
king
—
"
"
—
is
a
boy
of
thirteen
.
I
speak
with
his
voice
.
"
"
So
you
do
.
Indeed
.
The
King
’
s
Own
Hand
.
Yet
.
.
.
your
most
gracious
sister
,
our
Queen
Regent
,
she
.
.
.
"
"
.
.
.
bears
a
great
weight
upon
those
lovely
white
shoulders
of
hers
.
I
have
no
wish
to
add
to
her
burdens
.
Do
you
?
"
Tyrion
cocked
his
head
and
gave
the
Grand
Maester
an
inquiring
stare
.
Pycelle
dropped
his
gaze
back
to
his
food
.
Something
about
Tyrion
’
s
mismatched
green
-
and
-
black
eyes
made
men
squirm
;
knowing
that
,
he
made
good
use
of
them
.
"
Ah
,
"
the
old
man
muttered
into
his
plums
.
"
Doubtless
you
have
the
right
of
it
,
my
lord
.
It
is
most
considerate
of
you
to
.
.
.
spare
her
this
.
.
.
burden
.
"
"
That
’
s
just
the
sort
of
fellow
I
am
.
"
Tyrion
returned
to
the
unsatisfactory
porridge
.
"
Considerate
.
Cersei
is
my
own
sweet
sister
,
after
all
.
"
"
And
a
woman
,
to
be
sure
,
"
Grand
Maester
Pycelle
said
.
"
A
most
uncommon
woman
,
and
yet
.
.
.
it
is
no
small
thing
,
to
tend
to
all
the
cares
of
the
realm
,
despite
the
frailty
of
her
sex
.
.
.
"
Oh
,
yes
,
she
’
s
a
frail
dove
,
just
ask
Eddard
Stark
.
"
I
’
m
pleased
you
share
my
concern
.
And
I
thank
you
for
the
hospitality
of
your
table
.
But
a
long
day
awaits
.
"
He
swung
his
legs
out
and
clambered
down
from
his
chair
.
"
Be
so
good
as
to
inform
me
at
once
should
we
receive
a
reply
from
Dorne
?
"
"
As
you
say
,
my
lord
.
"
