For Herself, She Wanted Sleet And Ice,

Drifting Snowflakes Brushed Her Face As Light As Lover’s Kisses, And Melted On Her Cheeks. At The Center Of The Garden, Beside The Statue Of The Weeping Woman That Lay Broken And Half-buried On The Ground, She Turned Her Face Up To The Sky And Closed Her Eyes. She Could Feel The Snow On Her Lashes, Taste It On Her Lips. It Was The Taste Of Winterfell. The Taste Of Innocence. The Taste Of Dreams.

If He Must Be Alone, He Would Make Solitude His Armor.

We Only Make Peace With Our Enemies. That's Why It's Called Making Peace.

A Lord May Love The Men That He Commands, But He Cannot Be A Friend To Them. One Day He May Need To Sit In Judgement On Them, Or Send Them Forth To Die.

Shattered Legs May Heal In Time, But Some Betrayals Fester And Poison The Soul.