A Feast for Crows (A Song of Ice and Fire #4)

by George R.R. Martin

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

“I’m sorry that I never trusted you. I don’t know how to do that anymore.”

Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell’s grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan’s stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow’s smile. He used to mess my hair and call me “little sister,” she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.