I know that eggs do well to stay out of frying pans.
When soldiers lack discipline, the fault lies with their lord commander.
Pride goes before a fall.
I know I want you,” he heard himself say, all his vows and his honor all forgotten.
I love beauty, but sometimes a thing lovely to behold conceals vileness and evil within.
I will answer injustice with justice.
Like all tales, it takes on the attributes that make it most appealing to those who tell it.
He bound the land together, and made of seven kingdoms, one.
Ser Jorah was not a handsome man. He had a neck and shoulders like a bull, and coarse black hair covered his arms and chest so thickly that there was none left for his head.
Death is not the worst thing,” the kindly man replied. “It is His gift to us, an end to want and pain. On the day that we are born the Many-Faced God sends each of us a dark angel to walk through life beside us. When our sins and our sufferings grow too great to be borne, the angel takes us by the hand to lead us to the nightlands, where the stars burn ever bright.
That made her laugh until she screamed. “Mad,” someone said, “she’s lost her wits,” and someone else said, “Make an end,” and a hand grabbed her scalp just as she’d done with Jinglebell, and she thought, No, don’t, don’t cut my hair, Ned loves my hair. Then the steel was at her throat, and its bite was red and cold.
I will leave the making of law to you, brother,” Prince Baelon declared, “I would sooner make sons.
If they want to give you a name, take it, make it your own. Then they can’t hurt you with it anymore.
You have another choice, though,” Prince Baelor said quietly. “Whether it is a better choice or a worse one, I cannot say, but I remind you that any knight accused of a crime has the right to demand trial by combat. So I ask you once again, Ser Duncan the Tall – how good a knight are you? Truly?
Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.
With scarcely a moment’s respite, they began to play a very different sort of song. No one sang the words, but Catelyn knew “The Rains of Castamere” when she heard it. Edwyn was hurrying toward a door. She hurried faster, driven by the music. Six quick strides and she caught him. And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?
Lonely and lovely and lethal, Jon Snow reflected, and I might have had her. Her, and Winterfell, and my lord father’s name. Instead he had chosen a black cloak and a wall of ice. Instead he had chosen honor. A bastard’s sort of honor.
We are the shield that guards the realms of men. You do not throw away your shield for no good purpose.
No doubt he was smiling. He smiled a lot, as if the world were a secret joke that only he was clever enough to understand.
Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall he sent them down to die again.