And all was black and still, and black and cold, and black and dead, and black.

Time is different for a tree than for a man. Sun and soil and water, these are the things a weirwood understands, not days and years and centuries. For men, time is a river. We are trapped in its flow, hurtling from past to present, always in the same direction. The lives of trees are different. They root and grow and die in one place, and that river does not move them. The oak is the acorn, the acorn is the oak.

O medo corta mais profundamente do que as espadas.

There was an agelessness about him, a stillness; on Roose Bolton's face, rage and joy looked much the same.

Arya lifted her gaze from the dead man and his dead dog. Jaqen H'ghar was leaning up against the side of the Wailing Tower. When he saw her looking, he lifted a hand to his face and laid two fingers casually against his cheek.

a man who hates music can’t be trusted, I always say.

I have a hole where my heart should be, she thought, and nowhere else to go.