Remember Old Nan's stories, Bran. Remember the way she told them, the sound of her voice. So long as you do that, part of her will always be alive in you.

I stayed sober for this?

Don’t call me Lord Snow.” The dwarf lifted an eyebrow. “Would you rather be called the Imp? Let them see that their words can cut you and you’ll never be free of the mockery. If they want to give you a name take it make it your own. Then they can’t hurt you with it anymore.

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

What are gods for if not to sit in judgment over men? The Many-Faced God does not weigh men's souls, however. He gives his gift to the best of men as he gives it to the worst. Elsewise the good would live forever.

She should be on a hill somewhere, under a fruit tree, with the sun and clouds above her and the rain to wash her clean.

The only game. The game of thrones.