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- Джордж Мартин
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"
If
the
gods
are
good
,
they
will
grant
us
a
warm
autumn
and
bountiful
harvests
,
so
we
might
prepare
for
the
winter
to
come
.
"
The
smallfolk
said
that
a
long
summer
meant
an
even
longer
winter
,
but
the
maester
saw
no
reason
to
frighten
the
child
with
such
tales
.
Patchface
rang
his
bells
.
"
It
is
always
summer
under
the
sea
,
"
he
intoned
.
"
The
merwives
wear
nennymoans
in
their
hair
and
weave
gowns
of
silver
seaweed
.
I
know
,
I
know
,
oh
,
oh
,
oh
.
"
Shireen
giggled
.
"
I
should
like
a
gown
of
silver
seaweed
.
"
"
Under
the
sea
,
it
snows
up
,
"
said
the
fool
,
"
and
the
rain
is
dry
as
bone
.
I
know
,
I
know
,
oh
,
oh
,
oh
.
"
"
Will
it
truly
snow
?
"
the
child
asked
.
"
It
will
,
"
Cressen
said
.
But
not
for
years
yet
,
I
pray
,
and
then
not
for
long
.
"
Ah
,
here
is
Pylos
with
the
bird
.
"
Shireen
gave
a
cry
of
delight
.
Even
Cressen
had
to
admit
the
bird
made
an
impressive
sight
,
white
as
snow
and
larger
than
any
hawk
,
with
the
bright
black
eyes
that
meant
it
was
no
mere
albino
,
but
a
truebred
white
raven
of
the
Citadel
.
"
Here
,
"
he
called
.
The
raven
spread
its
wings
,
leapt
into
the
air
,
and
flapped
noisily
across
the
room
to
land
on
the
table
beside
him
.
"
I
’
ll
see
to
your
breakfast
now
,
"
Pylos
announced
.
Cressen
nodded
.
"
This
is
the
Lady
Shireen
,
"
he
told
the
raven
.
The
bird
bobbed
its
pale
head
up
and
down
,
as
if
it
were
bowing
.
"
Lady
,
"
it
croaked
.
"
Lady
.
"
The
child
’
s
mouth
gaped
open
.
"
It
talks
!
"
