— Power is a curious thing, my lord. Are you fond of riddles?
— Why, am I about to hear one?
— Three great men sit in a room. A king, a priest and a rich man. Between them stands a common sellsword. Each great man bids the sellsword kill the other two. Who lives, who dies?
— Depends on the sellsword.
— Does it? He has neither crown nor gold nor favor with the gods.
— He has a sword, the power of life and death.
— But if it's swordsmen who rule, why do we pretend kings hold all the power? When Ned Stark lost his head, who was truly responsible? Joffrey? The executioner? Or something else?
— I've decided I don't like riddles.
— Power resides where men believe it resides. It's a trick, a shadow on the wall. And a very small man can cast a very large shadow.
— Do you like it Nana?
— Another golden rose. How original. I eat from plates stamped with roses. I sleep in sheets embroidered with roses. I have a golden rose painted on my chamber pot, as if that makes it smell any better. Roses are boring, dear. "Growing strong.“ The dullest words of any house. "Winter is coming!" Now that's memorable. "We do not sow." Strong Strong. Those are houses you watch out for. Direwolwes and krakens, fierce beasts. But a golden rose growing strong, that strikes fear in the heart.
— Tyrion of the House Lannister, you stand accused by the Queen Regent of regicide. Did you kill King Joffrey?
— Did your wife, the Lady Sansa?
— Not that I know of.
— How would you say he died, then?
— Choked on his pigeon pie.
— So you would blame the bakers?
— Or the pigeons. Just leave me out of it.
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