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Jon was fourteen, an old hand at justice.
“Robb says the man died bravely, but Jon says he was afraid.” “What do you think?” his father asked. Bran thought about it. “Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?” “That is the only time a man can be brave,” his father told him.
If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.
A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is.”
Their father understood as well. “You want no pup for yourself, Jon?” he asked softly. “The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark,” Jon pointed out. “I am no Stark, Father.”
Halfway across the bridge, Jon pulled up suddenly. “What is it, Jon?” their lord father asked. “Can’t you hear it?” Bran could hear the wind in the trees, the clatter of their hooves on the ironwood planks, the whimpering of his hungry pup, but Jon was listening to something else. “There,” Jon said. He swung his horse around and galloped back across the bridge. They watched him dismount where the direwolf lay dead in the snow, watched him kneel. A moment later he was riding back to them, smiling. “He must have crawled away from the others,” Jon said.
except on the Isle of Faces where the green men kept their silent watch.
What is this?
A bastard had to learn to notice things, to read the truth that people hid behind their eyes.
“A bastard can have honor too,”
“Let me give you some counsel, bastard,” Lannister said. “Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.”
“Remember this, boy. All dwarfs may be bastards, yet not all bastards need be dwarfs.”
When he opened the door, the light from within threw his shadow clear across the yard, and for just a moment Tyrion Lannister stood tall as a king.
Jon looked her over with all his fourteen-year-old wisdom.
The twins Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk, who had died on one another’s swords hundreds of years ago, when brother fought sister in the war the singers called the Dance of the Dragons.
My babiesssss
He liked the birds: the crows in the broken tower, the tiny little sparrows that nested in cracks between the stones, the ancient owl that slept in the dusty loft above the old armory. Bran knew them all.
Stannis would be enough to give anyone indigestion.”
Truth
He looked half a leaf, as if the first strong wind would carry him off to his grave.
a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone,
Let them see that their words can cut you, and you’ll never be free of the mockery. If they want to give you a name, take it, make it your own. Then they can’t hurt you with it anymore.”
“When I know the truth, I must go to Robert.” And pray that he is the man I think he is, he finished silently, and not the man I fear he has become.
“I don’t know what message to send to Bran. Help him, Tyrion.” “What help could I give him? I am no maester, to ease his pain. I have no spells to give him back his legs.” “You gave me help when I needed it,” Jon Snow said. “I gave you nothing,” Tyrion said. “Words.” “Then give your words to Bran too.”
“Let me tell you something about wolves, child. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. So if you must hate, Arya, hate those who would truly do us harm.
“Crows are all liars,” Old Nan agreed, from the chair where she sat doing her needlework. “I know a story about a crow.”
“My stories? No, my little lord, not mine. The stories are, before me and after me, before you too.”
“You are slow to learn, Lord Eddard. Distrusting me was the wisest thing you’ve done since you climbed down off your horse.”
Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it, the dwarf had told him, grinning. The world was full of cravens who pretended to be heroes; it took a queer sort of courage to admit to cowardice as Samwell Tarly had.
Sansa was made of sterner stuff. A great lady knew how to behave at tournaments.
“It’s not murder I find amusing, Lord Stark, it’s you. You rule like a man dancing on rotten ice. I daresay you will make a noble splash. I believe I heard the first crack this morning.”
A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as blue as the eyes of death.
“Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow.”
“When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground.”
Perhaps it was all in the knowing. They had ridden past the end of the world; somehow that changed everything.
White fur and red eyes, Jon realized, disquieted. Like the trees …
In that darkness, the Others came riding, she used to say, dropping her voice lower and lower. Cold and dead they were, and they hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every living creature with hot blood in its veins. Holdfasts and cities and kingdoms of men all fell before them, as they moved
south on pale dead horses, leading hosts of the slain. They fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children …
“They will look, and they will talk, and some will mock you.” Let them mock, Bran thought. No one mocked him in his bedchamber, but he would not live his life in bed.
Damn her! What’s wrong with the girl?” Bran felt all cold inside. “She lost her wolf,” he said,
She had gone south, and only her bones had returned.
“You asked them and they’re answering. Open your ears, listen, you’ll hear.” Bran listened. “It’s only the wind,” he said after a moment, uncertain. “The leaves are rustling.” “Who do you think sends the wind, if not the gods?”
Roose Bolton nodded. “Go in there alone and you’re his. He can sell you to the Lannisters, throw you in a dungeon, or slit your throat, as he likes.”
What was wrong with them, couldn’t they see? Inside the tent the shapes were dancing, circling the brazier and the bloody bath, dark against the sandsilk, and some did not look human. She glimpsed the shadow of a great wolf, and another like a man wreathed in flames.
A great knife of pain ripped down her back, and she felt her skin tear open and smelled the stench of burning blood and saw the shadow of wings. And Daenerys Targaryen flew. “… wake the dragon …”
“When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east,” said Mirri Maz Duur. “When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child. Then he will return, and not before.”
