Stupid slut, the fat man shouted up. "The king's not dead, that's only summoning bells. One tower tolling. When the king dies, they ring every bell in the city."
Here, quit your biting, or I'll ring your bells, the woman in the window said to the man behind her, pushing him off with an elbow. "So who is it died, if not the king?"
It's a summoning, the fat man repeated.
Two boys close to Arya's age scampered past, splashing through a puddle. The old woman cursed them, but they kept right on going. Other people were moving too, heading up the hill to see what the noise was about. Arya ran after the slower boy. "Where you going?" she shouted when she was right behind him. "What's happening?"
He glanced back without slowing. "The gold cloaks is carryin' him to the sept."
Who? she yelled, running hard.
The Hand! They'll be taking his head off, Buu says.
A passing wagon had left a deep rut in the street. The boy leapt over, but Arya never saw it. She tripped and fell, face first, scraping her knee open on a stone and smashing her fingers when her hands hit the hard-packed earth. Needle tangled between her legs.