“Yes,” Shagga said, unabashed. “Shagga would give her a strong child.”  “If she wants a strong child, she’ll know whom to seek,” Tyrion said. “Timett, see her out... gently, if you would.”  The Burned Man pulled the girl from the bed and half marched, half dragged her across the chamber¹. Shagga watched them go, mournful as a puppy. The girl stumbled over the shattered door and out into the hall, helped along by a firm shove from Timett. Above their heads, the ravens² were screeching³.  Tyrion dragged the soft blanket off the bed, uncovering Grand Maester Pycelle beneath. “Tell me, does the Citadel⁴ approve of you bedding the serving wenches, Maester?”  The old man was as naked as the girl, though he made a markedly less attractive sight. For once, his heavy-lidded eyes were open wide. “W-what is the meaning of this? I am an old man, your loyal servant...”  Tyrion hoisted⁵ himself onto the bed. “So loyal that you sent only one of my letters to Doran Martell. The other you gave to my sister.”  “N-no,” squealed⁶ Pycelle. “No, a falsehood, I swear it, it was not me. Varys, it was Varys, the Spider, I warned you-”  “Do all maesters lie so poorly? I told Varys that I was giving Prince Doran my nephew Tommen to foster. I told Littlefinger that I planned to wed⁷ Myrcella to Lord Robert of the Eyrie. I told no one that I had offered Myrcella to the Dornish... that truth was only in the letter I entrusted⁸ to you.”  Pycelle clutched for a corner of the blanket. “Birds are lost, messages stolen or sold... it was Varys, there are things I might tell you of that eunuch that would chill your blood.”  “My lady prefers my blood hot.”  “Make no mistake, for every secret the eunuch whispers in your ear, he holds seven back. And Littlefinger, that one...”  “I know all about Lord Petyr. He’s almost as untrustworthy as you. Shagga, cut off his manhood and feed it to the goats.”  Shagga hefted the huge double-bladed

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