His cloak was his crowning glory; sable, thick and black and soft as sin.
The old man laid a withered, spotted hand on his shoulder. "It hurts, boy," he said softly. "Oh, yes. Choosing . . . it has always hurt. And always will. I know.
Give me a good sharp knife and a good sharp cheese and I’m a happy man.
She is not truly beautiful but something about her draws the eye.
The man is as useless as nipples on a breastplate.
Robb: Uncle Benjen said to send you to the stables if I saw you. Jon: I have one more farewell to make. Robb: Then I haven't seen you.