A Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire, #1)

by George R.R. Martin

“The boy is a long time dying. I wish he would be quicker about it.”

“Why would you want to ride a smelly old horse and get all sore and sweaty when you could recline on feather pillows and eat cakes with the queen?”

“Then we’re dead men, Lannister.” “If so, I prefer to die comfortable,”

How would you like to die, Tyrion son of Tywin?” “In my own bed, with a belly full of wine and a maiden’s mouth around my cock, at the age of eighty,”

Beric Dondarrion was handsome enough, but he was awfully old, almost twenty-two;

“Go ahead, call me all the names you want,” Sansa said airily. “You won’t dare when I’m married to Joffrey. You’ll have to bow to me and call me Your Grace.” She shrieked as Arya flung the orange across the table. It caught her in the middle of the forehead with a wet squish and plopped down into her lap. “You have juice on your face, Your Grace,” Arya said.

If she choked on the blood or retched up the flesh, the omens were less favorable; the child might be stillborn, or come forth weak, deformed, or female.

“Hodor,” said Hodor.