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. He used to mess my hair and call me "little sister," she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

You lie. Worse, you lie poorly.

- Some men think because they are afraid to do. - There is a difference between fear and caution.

I work for two years on a book and it comes out and two days later I've got my first e-mail: When is the next one coming out?

Dark wings, dark words.

What's dead may never die.

He wished he could relieve himself of his doubts and guilts half as easily.