Bokelskere.no

“It’s just a stupid sword,” she said, aloud this time ...
... but it wasn’t.
Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell’s grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan’s stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow’s smile.

"Nuncle, how can you even think of not attending? This will be history, alive..."
"I prefer my history dead. Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood."

Words are like arrows, Arianne. Once loosed, you cannot call them back.

—[LYSA ARRYN], his mother’s sister, Lady of the Eyrie, m. Lord Jon Arryn, slain with a shove,

A snowflake landed on Sam’s nose. “Jon wants to see me?” “As to that, I could not say,” said Dolorous Edd Tollett. “I never wanted to see half the things I’ve seen, and I’ve never seen half the things I wanted to. I don’t think wanting comes into it.

...well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken.

How much do we men ever know? - Jamie Lannister