Trust Is Earned. Like Gold.

The Stone Is Strong. Bran Told Himself, The Roots Of The Trees Go Deep, And Under The Ground The Kings Of Winter Sit Their Thrones. So Long As Those Remained, Winterfell Remained. It Was Not Dead, Just Broken. Like Me, He Thought. I'm Not Dead Either.

What Do You Like To Do?” She Scuffed A Toe Amongst The Rushes. “needlework.” “very Restful, Isn’t It?” “well,” Said Arya, “not The Way I Do It.

I Don’t Know What Message To Send To Bran. Help Him Tyrion.” “what Help Could I Give Him? I Am No Maester, To Ease His Pain. I Have No Spell To Give Him Back His Legs.” “you Gave Me Help When I Needed It” Jon Snow Said. “i Gave You Nothing,” Tyrion Said. “words.” “then Give Your Words To Bran Too.

I Had These Cheap Alien Toys And I Made Up Stories For Them. They Were Space Pirates. They Didn’t Have Names So I Made Up Names. These Were The First Stories I Wrote. Even As A Little Kid I Was Thinking About Torture.

Give Me Priests Who Are Fat And Corrupt And Cynical,(...) The Sort Who Like To Sit On Soft Satin Cushions, Nibble Sweetmeats, And Diddle Little Boys. It's The Ones Who Believe In Gods Who Make The Trouble. (tyrion)