A lord must learn that sometimes words can accomplish what swords cannot.

Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born.

Catelyn had never liked this godswood. She had been born a Tully, at Riverrun far to the south, on the Red Fork of the Trident. The godswood there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams, birds sang from hidden nests, and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers.

Drowning was bad enough. But drowning sad and sober, that's too cruel.

It is being common-born that is dangerous, when the great lords play their game of thrones.

She had put despair and fear aside, as if they were garments she did not choose to wear.

all men carry murder in their hearts, yet even so, the poisoner is beneath contempt.