The music from the castles was louder here. The sound of the drums and horns rolled across the camp. The musicians in the nearer castle were playing a different song than the ones in the castle on the far bank, though, so it sounded more like a battle than a song. “They’re not very good,” Arya observed.
All that weeping makes me want to slap her,” he complained, “and I can scarce sleep for her sobbing.” You would weep as well if you had a son and lost him, Sam almost said. He could not blame Gilly for her grief. Instead, he blamed Jon Snow and wondered when Jon’s heart had turned to stone. Once he asked Maester Aemon that very question, when Gilly was down at the canal fetching water for them. “When you raised him up to be the lord commander,” the old man answered.
The mountain is your mother,” Stonesnake had told him during an easier climb a few days past. “Cling to her, press yourself against her teats, and she won’t drop you.
Flies are the dead man’s revenge.
It was a clear cold night and the stars shone down upon the mountains as bright and merciless as truth.
Every child knows its mother, Dany thought. When the seas go dry and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves.
Grieve for your friend, but never blame yourself.
Secrets are worth more than silver and sapphires.
When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child, then he will return, and not before.
We should start back,” Gared urged as the woods began to grow dark around them. “The wildlings are dead.” “Do the dead frighten you?” Ser Waymar Royce asked with just the hint of a smile.
I do. My time is done.” Jaqen passed a hand down his face from forehead to chin, and where it went he changed. His cheeks grew fuller, his eyes closer; his nose hooked, a scar appeared on his right cheek where no scar had been before. And when he shook his head, his long straight hair, half red and half white, dissolved away to reveal a cap of tight black curls.
A man does not fly like a bird, but one foot moves and then another and one day a man is there, and a king dies.
The scent of blood or the scent of gold, they smell the same in the end.
The biggest toms would seldom win, she noticed; oft as not, the prize went to some smaller, quicker animal, thin and mean and hungry.
No ruler can make a people good.
Barefoot surefoot lightfoot, she sang under her breath. I am the ghost in Harrenhal.
It might have been minutes or it might have been hours; time slept when swords woke.
If you cut a worm in two, you make two worms.
It beat down on Ned’s head, warm as blood and relentless as old guilts.
A man can own a woman or a man can own a knife, but no man can own both.