George Martin

Nuncle, how can you even think of not attending? This will be history, alive...”

“I prefer my history dead. Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.”

“Do you want to die old and craven in your bed?”

“How else? Though not till I’m done reading.”

“When you cross to Saltpans, no doubt Ser Quincy will ask you for forgiveness. I am glad that you are here to give it. I could not.”

Sweet it was, sweet and gone too soon. Dawn came cruel, a dagger of light. She woke aching and alone and weary; weary of riding, weary of hurting, weary of duty. I want to weep, she thought. I want to be comforted. I’m so tired of being strong. I want to be foolish and frightened for once. Just for a small while, that’s all . . . a day . . . an hour . . .

Ser Boros Blount harrumphed. “No man threatens His Grace in the presence of the Kingsguard.”

Tyrion Lannister raised an eyebrow. “I am not threatening the king, ser, I am educating my nephew. Bronn, Timett, the next time Ser Boros opens his mouth, kill him.” The dwarf smiled. “Now that was a threat, ser. See the difference?”

“The Watch needs good men,” he told them as they set out, “but you lot will have to do.”

The world had tightened around them, but beyond the walled wood still stood the great grey caves of man-rock. Winterfell, he remembered, the sound coming to him suddenly. Beyond its sky-tall man-cliffs the true world was calling, and he knew he must answer or die.

This world is twisted beyond hope, when lowborn smugglers must vouch for the honor of kings.

She could smell out falsehood, she could, but she was dead, Father had killed her, on account of Arya.

The face of a drowned woman, Catelyn thought. Can you drown in grief?

They are boys drunk on song and story, and like all boys, they think themselves immortal.