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- Джордж Мартин
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- Игра престолов
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No
,
she
shouted
,
or
perhaps
she
only
thought
it
,
for
no
whisper
of
sound
escaped
her
lips
.
She
was
being
carried
.
Her
eyes
opened
to
gaze
up
at
a
flat
dead
sky
,
black
and
bleak
and
starless
.
Please
,
no
.
The
sound
of
Mirri
Maz
Duur
's
voice
grew
louder
,
until
it
filled
the
world
.
The
shapes
!
she
screamed
.
The
dancers
!
Ser
Jorah
carried
her
inside
the
tent
.
The
scent
of
hot
bread
drifting
from
the
shops
along
the
Street
of
Flour
was
sweeter
than
any
perfume
Arya
had
ever
smelled
.
She
took
a
deep
breath
and
stepped
closer
to
the
pigeon
.
It
was
a
plump
one
,
speckled
brown
,
busily
pecking
at
a
crust
that
had
fallen
between
two
cobblestones
,
but
when
Arya
's
shadow
touched
it
,
it
took
to
the
air
.
Her
stick
sword
whistled
out
and
caught
it
two
feet
off
the
ground
,
and
it
went
down
in
a
flurry
of
brown
feathers
.
She
was
on
it
in
the
blink
of
an
eye
,
grabbing
a
wing
as
the
pigeon
flapped
and
fluttered
.
It
pecked
at
her
hand
.
She
grabbed
its
neck
and
twisted
until
she
felt
the
bone
snap
.
Compared
with
catching
cats
,
pigeons
were
easy
.
A
passing
septon
was
looking
at
her
askance
.
"
Here
's
the
best
place
to
find
pigeon
,
"
Arya
told
him
as
she
brushed
herself
off
and
picked
up
her
fallen
stick
sword
.
"
They
come
for
the
crumbs
.
"
He
hurried
away
.
She
tied
the
pigeon
to
her
belt
and
started
down
the
street
.
A
man
was
pushing
a
load
of
tarts
by
on
a
two-wheeled
cart
;
the
smells
sang
of
blueberries
and
lemons
and
apricots
.
Her
stomach
made
a
hollow
rumbly
noise
.
"
Could
I
have
one
?
"
she
heard
herself
say
.
"
A
lemon
,
or
...
or
any
kind
.
"
The
pushcart
man
looked
her
up
and
down
.
Plainly
he
did
not
like
what
he
saw
.
"
Three
coppers
.
"
Arya
tapped
her
wooden
sword
against
the
side
of
her
boot
.
"
I
'll
trade
you
a
fat
pigeon
,
"
she
said
.
"
The
Others
take
your
pigeon
,
"
the
pushcart
man
said
.
