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- Джордж Мартин
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Bronn
complained
of
the
gloom
when
he
arrived
,
and
insisted
on
a
fire
in
the
hearth
.
It
was
blazing
by
the
time
Varys
made
his
appearance
.
"
Where
have
you
been
?
"
Tyrion
demanded
.
"
About
the
king
’
s
business
,
my
sweet
lord
.
"
"
Ah
,
yes
,
the
king
,
"
Tyrion
muttered
.
"
My
nephew
is
not
fit
to
sit
a
privy
,
let
alone
the
Iron
Throne
.
"
Varys
shrugged
.
"
An
apprentice
must
be
taught
his
trade
.
"
"
Half
the
‘
prentices
on
Reeking
Lane
could
rule
better
than
this
king
of
yours
.
"
Bronn
seated
himself
across
the
table
and
pulled
a
wing
off
the
capon
Tyrion
had
made
a
practice
of
ignoring
the
sellsword
’
s
frequent
insolences
,
but
tonight
he
found
it
galling
.
"
I
don
’
t
recall
giving
you
leave
to
finish
my
supper
.
"
"
You
didn
’
t
look
to
be
eating
it
,
"
Bronn
said
through
a
mouthful
of
meat
.
"
City
’
s
starving
,
it
’
s
a
crime
to
waste
food
.
You
have
any
wine
?
"
Next
he
’
ll
want
me
to
pour
it
for
him
,
Tyrion
thought
darkly
.
"
You
go
too
far
,
"
he
warned
.
"
And
you
never
go
far
enough
.
"
Bronn
tossed
the
wingbone
to
the
rushes
.
"
Ever
think
how
easy
life
would
be
if
the
other
one
had
been
born
first
?
"
He
thrust
his
fingers
inside
the
capon
and
tore
off
a
handful
of
breast
.
"
The
weepy
one
,
Tommen
.
Seems
like
he
’
d
do
whatever
he
was
told
,
as
a
good
king
should
.
"
A
chill
crept
down
Tyrion
’
s
spine
as
he
realized
what
the
sellsword
was
hinting
at
.
If
Tommen
was
king
.
.
.
