Some illiterates held writing in disdain; others seemed to have a superstitious reverence for the written word, as if it were some sort of magic.
And of late he had often found himself dreaming of snow, of the deep quiet of the wolfswood at night.
Hatred does not stir the stone men half so much as hunger.
When he saw her banners, he trotted up to her alone. “My lady,” he called, “I am Ser Colen of Greenpools, as it please you. These are dangerous lands you cross.” “Our business is urgent,” she answered him. “I come as envoy from my son, Robb.
Why give a horse to a man who cannot ride? The sword was the kingdom, he says.
I’m not ashamed of loving you, only of the things I’ve done to hide it.
He could help you, He can do sums, and he knows how to read and write. I know Chett can’t read, and Clydas has weak eyes. Sam read every book in his father’s library. He’d be good with the ravens too. Animals seem to like him. Ghost took to him straight off. There’s a lot he could do, besides fighting. The Night’s Watch needs every man. Why kill one, to no end? Make use of him instead.
He offers the honeycomb with one hand and shows the whip with the other.
He clutched it tight, moving away from the fire, away from Gilly and the babe. “Paul?” He meant to sound brave, but it came out in a squeak. “Small Paul. Do you know me? I’m Sam, fat Sam, Sam the Scared, you saved me in the woods. You carried me when I couldn’t walk another step. No one else could have done that, but you did.” Sam backed away, knife in hand, sniveling. I am such a coward.
You will return to Lord Gyles and inform him that he does not have my leave to die.
They are still unblooded, Catelyn thought as she watched Lord Bryce goad Ser Robar into juggling a brace of daggers. It is all a game to them still, a tourney writ large, and all they see is the chance for glory and honor and spoils. They are boys drunk on song and story, and like all boys, they think themselves immortal.
Boys might play with swords, but it took a lord to make a marriage pact, knowing what it meant. They.
Of course it is, thought Tyrion. The game of thrones. “As you say, Captain,” he murmured, bowing once again.
Ser Barristan let Reznak’s oily words wash over him. His years in the Kingsguard had taught him the trick of listening withouthearing, especially useful when the speaker was intent on proving that words were truly wind.
She cradled the tea in her scarred hands and blew on it to cool it.
Daenerys, I am thrice your age,” Ser Jorah said. “I have seen how false men are. Very few are worthy of trust, and Daario Naharis is not one of them. Even his beard wears false colors.” That angered her. “Whilst you have an honest beard, is that what you are telling me? You are the only man I should ever trust?
A clever slave deserves a clever master, and you lot all look like fools.
He’s not afraid of anyone, m’lord.” “He should be. Fear is what keeps a man alive in this world of treachery and deceit.
His passions were books and kittens and dancing, clumsy as he was.
That was either very wise or very stupid, she was not sure which.