A hedge knight must hold tight to his pride. Without it, he was no more than a sellsword

I do so hope he plays us 'The Rains of Castamere.' It has been an hour. I've forgotten how it goes -- Olenna Tyrell, the HBIC

In order to get inside their skin, I have to identify with them. That includes even the ones who are complete bastards, nasty, twisted, deeply flawed human beings with serious psychological problems. Even them. When I get inside their skin and look out through their eyes, I have to feel a certain - if not sympathy, certainly empathy for them. I have to try to perceive the world as they do, and that creates a certain amount of affection.

Why should death make a man truthful, or even clever? The dead are likely dull fellows, full of tedious complaints - the ground's too cold, my gravestone should be larger, why does he get more worms than I do.

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

Black moleskin gloves covered his hands; the right because it was burned, the left because a man felt half a fool wearing only one glove.

I prefer my history dead. Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.