Lord Varys: You will be pleased to know our mutual friend is doing quite well in Lady Sansa's service.
Tyrion Lannister: Good. One of my better ideas.
Lord Varys: And it seems the Grand Maester has found his way into a black cell?
[Tyrion shrugs]
Lord Varys: Well played, my lord Hand. But should I be worried? Janos Slynt, Pycelle... the small council grows smaller every day.
Tyrion Lannister: The council has a reputation for serving past Hands poorly. I don't mean to follow Ned Stark to the grave.
Lord Varys: Power is a curious thing, my lord. Are you fond of riddles?
Tyrion Lannister: Why? Am I about to hear one?
Lord Varys: 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?
Tyrion Lannister: Depends on the sellsword.
Lord Varys: Does it? He has neither crown, nor gold, nor favor with the gods.
Tyrion Lannister: He has a sword, the power of life and death.
Lord Varys: 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?
Tyrion Lannister: I've decided I don't like riddles.
[pause]
Lord Varys: 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.
