The Farseer Trilogy, tome 2 : Royal Assassin

"Riddles, dear Fitzy-fitz, are supposed to make folk think. To find new truth in old saws. But, be that as it may... Your brain eludes me. How shall I reach it? Perhaps if I came to you, by dark of night, and sang under your window:

"Bastard Princeling, Fitz my sweet,
You waste your hours to your own defeat.
You work to stop, you strive to refrain,
When all your effort should go to a gain."

He had flung himself to one knee, and plucked nonexistent strings on his scepter. He sang quite lustily, and even well. The tune belonged to a popular love ballad. He looked at me, sighed theatrically, wet his lips, and continued mournfully:

"Why does a Farseer look never afar,
Why dwells he completely things as they are?
Your coasts are besieged, your people beset.
I warn and I urge, but they all say, "not yet !"
O Bastard Princeling, gentle Fitz,
Will you delay until chopped to bits?"

Sometimes I tried to pretend I was laying a restless soul to peace, putting a family's anguish to a final end. I hoped I would not become too adept at lying to myself. It was a luxury an assassin could not afford. Chade had warned me that I must always remember what I truly was. Not an angel of mercy, but a killer who worked for the good of the King. Or the King-in-Waiting. It was ly duty to keep the throne secure. My duty.

Wolves have no kings