I prefer my history dead. Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.

A dead enemy is a joy forever

A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies.

It seemed cruel for a day to dawn so fair and end so foul as this one promised to.

Only lies offend me, never honest counsel.

The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer.

When you smell our candles burning, what does it make you think of, my child?" Winterfell, she might have said. I smell snow and smoke and pine needles. I smell the stables. I smell Hodor laughing, and Jon and Robb battling in the yard, and Sansa singing about some stupid lady fair. I smell the crypts where the stone kings sit. I smell hot bread baking. I smell the godswood. I smell my wolf. I smell her fur, almost as if she were still beside me. "I don't smell anything," she said.