Η Λυάννα θα κράταγε σπαθί εαν ο άρχοντας πατέρας μου το επέτρεπε. Μου την θυμίζεις μερικές φορές. Της μοιάζεις κιόλας.
Όταν πέφτουν τα χιόνια και οι λευκοί άνεμοι φυσούν, ο μοναχικός λύκος πεθαίνει αλλά το κοπάδι επιβιώνει.
Μπορεί να διαφέρετε όσο ο ήλιος με το φεγγάρι αλλά το ίδιο αίμα κυλάει στις καρδιές και των δυό σας. Την έχεις ανάγκη όπως και αυτή σε έχει ανάγκη...και εχώ έχω ανάγκη και τις δυό σας, οι θεοί να με βοηθήσουν
Her father used to say that a lord needed to eat with his men, if he hoped to keep them. “Know the men who follow you,” she heard him tell Robb once, “and let them know you. Don’t ask your men to die for a stranger.” At Winterfell, he always had an extra seat set at his own table, and every day a different man would be asked to join him. One night it would be Vayon Poole, and the talk would be coppers and bread stores and servants. The next time it would be Mikken, and her father would listen to him go on about armor and swords and how hot a forge should be and the best way to temper steel. Another day it might be Hullen with his endless horse talk, or Septon Chayle from the library, or Jory, or Ser Rodrik, or even Old Nan with her stories.
“Ah, Arya. You have a wildness in you, child. ‘The wolf blood,’ my father used to call it. Lyanna had a touch of it, and my brother Brandon more than a touch. It brought them both to an early grave.”
She could not hate Joffrey tonight. He was too beautiful to hate.
He had grey-green eyes that did not smile when his mouth did.