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- Джордж Мартин
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"
He
was
a
wretched
king
.
.
.
vain
,
drunken
,
lecherous
.
.
.
he
would
have
set
your
sister
aside
,
his
own
queen
.
.
.
please
.
.
.
Renly
was
plotting
to
bring
the
Highgarden
maid
to
court
,
to
entice
his
brother
.
.
.
it
is
the
gods
’
own
truth
.
.
.
"
"
And
what
was
Lord
Arryn
plotting
?
"
"
He
knew
,
"
Pycelle
said
.
"
About
.
.
.
about
.
.
.
"
"
I
know
what
he
knew
about
,
"
snapped
Tyrion
,
who
was
not
anxious
for
Shagga
and
Timett
to
know
as
well
.
"
He
was
sending
his
wife
back
to
the
Eyrie
,
and
his
son
to
be
fostered
on
Dragonstone
.
.
.
he
meant
to
act
.
.
.
"
"
So
you
poisoned
him
first
.
"
"
No
.
"
Pycelle
struggled
feebly
.
Shagga
growled
and
grabbed
his
head
.
The
clansman
’
s
hand
was
so
big
he
could
have
crushed
the
maester
’
s
skull
like
an
eggshell
had
he
squeezed
.
Tyrion
tsk
ed
at
him
.
"
I
saw
the
tears
of
Lys
among
your
potions
.
And
you
sent
away
Lord
Arryn
’
s
own
maester
and
tended
him
yourself
,
so
you
could
make
certain
that
he
died
.
"
"
A
falsehood
!
"
"
Shave
him
closer
,
"
Tyrion
suggested
.
"
The
throat
again
.
"
