“Or should I call you the King Who Lost the North, Your Grace?”
When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths.
We are not southerners.
The Red Wedding as a fairytale in a medieval manuscript
His face was clean shaved, smooth skinned, ordinary, not handsome but not quite plain . Though Roose had been in battles, he bore no scars. Though well past forty, he was as yet unwrinkled, with scarce a line to tell of the passage of time. His lips were so thin that when he pressed them together they seem to vanish altogether.
It is Ghiscari, the old pure tongue. It means ‘Mother’.
“We need a voice in council, an ear at court. Be careful, though. King’s Landing is a pit of snakes.”
Lady Nym smiled. “Why, Uncle, I love snakes.”
Craven, Jaime thought, as Brienne fought to stifle her moans. Can it be? They took my sword hand. Was that all I was, a sword hand? Gods be good, is it true? The wench had the right of it. He could not die. Cersei was waiting for him. She would have need of him. And Tyrion, his little brother, who loved him for a lie. And his enemies were waiting too; the Young Wolf who had beaten him in the Whispering Wood and killed his men around him, Edmure Tully who had kept him in darkness and chains, these Brave Companions. When morning came, he made himself eat. They fed him a mush of oats, horse food, but he forced down every spoon. He ate again at evenfall, and the next day. Live, he told himself harshly, when the mush was like to gag him, live for Cersei, live for Tyrion. Live for vengeance. A Lannister always pays his debts.
B R O T H E R H O O D W I T H O U T B A N N E R S ➻
fakebook of the houses