History Quotes / ASongOfIceAndFire

21st Sep '17 1:19:38 AM Aquila89
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-->--
21st Sep '17 1:19:02 AM Aquila89
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->The common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends. It is no matter to them if the high lords play their game of thrones, so long as they are left in peace. They never are.
21st Sep '17 1:17:44 AM Aquila89
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! Ned Stark
->The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, and we hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.
10th Jun '17 11:30:06 AM Sodaburst
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--> "Oberyn wanted vengeance for Elia. Now the three of you want vengeance for him. I have four daughters, I remind you. Your sisters. My Elia is fourteen, almost a woman. Obella is twelve, on the brink of maidenhood. They worship you, as Dorea and Loreza worship them. If you should die, must El and Obella seek vengeance for you, then Dorea and Loree for them? Is that how it goes, round and round forever? I ask again, where does it end? I saw your father die. Here is his killer. Can I take a skull to bed with me, to give me comfort in the night? Will it make me laugh, write me songs, care for me when I am old and sick?"
-->-- '''Ellaria Sand'''
11th Jan '17 6:27:56 PM Darth_Rasputin32898
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->''[On Loras]'' He's me. I am speaking to myself, as I was, all cocksure arrogance and empty chivalry. This is what it does to you, to be too good too young.

-->--



4th Dec '16 11:08:42 PM EvilKid
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-> “Wherever whores go,” ''he heard Lord Tywin say once more, and once more the bowstring'' thrummed.

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-> “Wherever whores go,” ''he heard Lord Tywin say once more, and [[spoiler:and once more the bowstring'' thrummed.
thrummed.]]



-> ''[Final Words]'' Wherever whores go.

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-> ''[Final Words]'' [[spoiler:''[Final Words]'']] Wherever whores go.
4th Dec '16 10:55:26 PM EvilKid
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-> '''Stannis''': I defeated your uncle Victarion and his Iron Fleet off Fair Isle, the first time your father crowned himself. I held Storm's End against the power of the Reach for a year, and took Dragonstone from the Targaryens. I smashed Mance Rayder at the Wall, though he had twenty times my numbers. Tell me, turncloak, what battles has the Bastard of Bolton ever won that I should fear him?

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-> '''Stannis''': I defeated your uncle [[spoiler:your uncle]] Victarion and his Iron Fleet off Fair Isle, the first time your father [[spoiler:your father]] crowned himself. I held Storm's End against the power of the Reach for a year, and took Dragonstone from the Targaryens. I [[spoiler:I smashed Mance Rayder at the Wall, though he had twenty times my numbers. numbers.]] Tell me, turncloak, [[spoiler:turncloak,]] what battles has the Bastard [[spoiler:Bastard of Bolton Bolton]] ever won that I should fear him?
27th Nov '16 11:01:09 AM MrThorfan64
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-->--

-> '''Stannis''': I defeated your uncle Victarion and his Iron Fleet off Fair Isle, the first time your father crowned himself. I held Storm's End against the power of the Reach for a year, and took Dragonstone from the Targaryens. I smashed Mance Rayder at the Wall, though he had twenty times my numbers. Tell me, turncloak, what battles has the Bastard of Bolton ever won that I should fear him?



--> '''Ser Oswell''': “Ser Willem is a good man and true,”

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--> '''Ser Oswell''': “Ser “Ser Willem is a good man and true,”
11th Aug '16 8:35:12 AM Vampireandthen
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----

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--------

--> Promise me, Ned.
-->--'''Lyanna Stark'''
19th Jun '16 1:15:28 PM TroperNo.B-24715
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-->There are many sorts of outlaws, just as there are many sorts of birds. A sandpiper and a sea eagle both have wings, but they are not the same. The singers love to sing of good men forced to go outside the law to fight some wicked lord, but most outlaws are more like this ravening Hound than they are the lightning lord. They are evil men, driven by greed, soured by malice, despising the gods and caring only for themselves. Broken men are more deserving of our pity, though they may be just as dangerous. Almost all are common-born, simple folk who had never been more than a mile from the house where they were born until the day some lord came round to take them off to war. Poorly shod and poorly clad, they march away beneath his banners, ofttimes with no better arms than a sickle or a sharpened hoe, or a maul they made themselves by lashing a stone to a stick with strips of hide. Brothers march with brothers, sons with fathers, friends with friends. They’ve heard the songs and stories, so they go off with eager hearts, dreaming of the wonders they will see, of the wealth and glory they will win. War seems a fine adventure, the greatest most of them will ever know.
-->Then they get a taste of battle.
-->For some, that one taste is enough to break them. Others go on for years, until they lose count of all the battles they have fought in, but even a man who has survived a hundred fights can break in his hundred-and-first. Brothers watch their brothers die, fathers lose their sons, friends see their friends trying to hold their entrails in after they’ve been gutted by an axe. They see the lord who led them there cut down, and some other lord shouts that they are his now. They take a wound, and when that’s still half-healed they take another. There is never enough to eat, their shoes fall to pieces from the marching, their clothes are torn and rotting, and half of them are shitting in their breeches from drinking bad water.
-->If they want new boots or a warmer cloak or maybe a rusted iron halfhelm, they need to take them from a corpse, and before long they are stealing from the living too, from the smallfolk whose lands they’re fighting in, men very like the men they used to be. They slaughter their sheep and steal their chickens, and from there it’s just a short step to carrying off their daughters too. And one day they look around and realize all their friends and kin are gone, that they are fighting beside strangers beneath a banner that they hardly recognize. They don’t know where they are or how to get back home and the lord they’re fighting for does not know their names, yet here he comes, shouting for them to form up, to make a line with their spears and scythes and sharpened hoes, to stand their ground. And the knights come down on them, faceless men clad all in steel, and the iron thunder of their charge seems to fill the world...
-->And the man breaks.
-->He turns and runs, or crawls off afterward over the corpses of the slain, or steals away in the black of night, and he finds someplace to hide. All thought of home is gone by then, and kings and lords and gods mean less to him than a haunch of spoiled meat that will let him live another day, or a skin of bad wine that might drown his fear for a few hours. The broken man lives from day to day, from meal to meal, more beast than man. Lady Brienne is not wrong. In times like these, the traveler must beware of broken men, and fear them... but he should pity them as well.
-->-- '''Septon Meribald'''


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