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.

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.

I'm honest. It's the world that's awful.

Sooner would be better than later, and now would be better than sooner." - Tyrion

When we speak of the morrow nothing is ever certain.

she would die as she had lived, with an axe in her hand and a laugh upon her lips.

I crossed a thousand leagues to come to you, and lost the best part of me along the way. Don't tell me to leave.