A Dance with Dragons (A Song of Ice and Fire, #5)

by George R.R. Martin

She saw her father’s face upon the wall. Beside him hung her lady mother, and below them her three brothers all in a row.

Women were always the cruelest where other women were concerned.

What do you miss, Halfman?” Jaime, thought Tyrion.

“Are there any other parts of me you like?” Penny asked. Perhaps she meant that to sound playful. It sounded sad instead.

Tyrion slapped her. It was a soft blow, all in all, a little flick of the wrist, with hardly any force behind it. It did not even leave a mark upon her cheek. But her eyes filled with tears all the same. “If you want to dream, go back to sleep,” he told her.

We were his favorites, his … his …” “Slaves. The word you want is slaves.

For a moment Ser Barristan did not know whom he meant. Then it came to him. “The queen’s cupbearers?” “Hostages,” insisted Skahaz mo Kandaq.

“I will not suffer the murder of children.

We have no choice in this. Yet no matter how he turned and twisted this, the old knight could find no honor in it.

“It is chivalry that makes a true knight, not a sword,” he said. “Without honor, a knight is no more than a common killer. It is better to die with honor than to live without it.”

She died never knowing that Ser Barristan had loved her. How could she? He was a knight of the Kingsguard, sworn to celibacy. No good could have come from telling her his feelings. No good came from silence either. If I had unhorsed Rhaegar and crowned Ashara queen of love and beauty, might she have looked to me instead of Stark? He would never know. But of all his failures, none haunted Barristan Selmy so much as that.

You are supposed to be my friend, Gerris. Why must you mock my hopes? I have doubts enough without your throwing oil on the fire of my fear

Where is my sister?

My brothers. The Night’s Watch needed leaders with the wisdom of Maester Aemon, the learning of Samwell Tarly, the courage of Qhorin Halfhand, the stubborn strength of the Old Bear, the compassion of Donal Noye. What it had instead was them.

He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon’s breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six

Men with comfortable seats were more inclined to listen, Maester Aemon had once told him; standing men were more inclined to shout.