Quotes / The Weirwood Queen

Sansa Stark

Old gods, you are ancient and strong. I have grown up in your lands, and kept faith with you. Please, I know you sent the direwolves to us, do not let me be the only Stark without protection. Someday I will be the queen, and I will have weirwoods planted across the realm to honor you and restore your power.

—

A knight of the Kingsguard, sent to kidnap a child of nine and ordered to strike a lady of twelve. And he didn't even catch Arya. Such songs they'll sing of his triumphs.

—

They’re my people… A true lady comforts and protects her people. Family, duty, honor.

—

The man who ordered the burning is the one who should pay, not the smallfolk bound to obey him.

—

I am a young lady, not made for fighting battles. But I am not the Young Wolf. I am the Red Wolf, and I have a duty to my people too.

—

Lord Tywin Lannister. Hand of the King, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West. How could I even begin to list your deeds? You were still a youth when you drowned the Reynes and every servant sworn to their household.

For near twenty years you served as Hand to the Mad King, until you joined the rebellion against him. Aerys trusted you and opened the gates. In return, your men sacked the helpless city. Princess Elia should have been taken prisoner, her children sent to the Faith or the Wall. Your men would never dare oppose the orders of the great Lord of Casterly Rock. But those weren’t the orders you gave, were they?

You ordered the rape of Princess Elia and the slaughter of her babes. They were children! But they weren’t the only babes dead by your command. How many mothers mourn in the Riverlands? Gregor Clegane broke the King’s Peace at your behest, raping the women and burning the harvest. And when Lord Beric Dondarrion rode forth under the king’s banner to stop the slaughter, your men attacked him in defiance of all the laws of the realm. And when Robb Stark went to our uncle’s wedding at the Twins, and the Freys greeted him with bread and salt, you— you—

He was a guest in his bannerman’s hall! The Freys would never dare act without the Iron Throne behind them. Robb defeated you in battle, you signed a peace treaty, and then you tried to have him murdered at a wedding. They killed my mother and threw her corpse naked into the river, and they did it for you!

Tywin the Faithless I name you. Oathbreaker. Murderer. Craven.

—

"House Drinkwater of Clear Bend. Your sigil is a blue river bend between two trees on a green field. Remind me, what are your house words?” 

Utha scoffed, unimpressed. “Clear as crystal, strong as steel.” Sansa smiled; she had remembered rightly.

“Then let me be crystal clear,” she said sweetly. “She is Lady Brienne of Tarth, heir to Evenfall Hall." One of Utha's companions was pointing to Sansa's hair and whispering frantically under her breath as Sansa approached. "I am Princess Sansa of House Stark, sister to the King of the North, the Trident, and the Vale. You are the niece of a landed knight, and your words are unbecoming of a lady. I can only assume that you have not yet bathed, and the filth on your skin somehow poisoned your tongue."

—

"Love is not the death of duty, it is the foundation of it. Hasn't my love helped you remain steadfast, all these long months of preparing for your conquest? Your love has certainly helped me endure long years away from home." 

"Home," Olyvar whispered. "I know you long for Winterfell; I cannot keep you from it." 

Sansa shook her head. "I long for Winterfell,” she said, wistful, “but in the way you long for the Water Gardens. Those days are done; I cannot truly go back, no matter who I wed. I cannot be a girl again, no more than you can be a bastard boy. You trust my counsel in all else; will you not trust me in this?”

"Sansa.” He cupped her cheek, his gaze warm and uncertain. "Are you sure? There is no going back from this; it is a choice that cannot be undone." 

"A choice is what you make of it," she said. "And I choose you. You once said you would only touch me by my leave, and you have it, ser." She hesitated, shy. "Just as you have my heart." 

—

"Is that not a sign?" Sansa demanded, hiccuping through her sobs. "Or have you forgotten you would not even be here if not for me? You, your sister, your mother, all of you were dead and buried before I was born, and you would have stayed that way if I had not- if I had not-" she hiccuped again, trying to find her words. "Harrenhal- the blood- the weirwood- so much magic, it hurt, and I- and then- and then- and then everything changed, but no one knew, no one remembered—"

Arya Stark

You killed Lady, why would Sansa believe you'd take her to say goodbye?

—

When Arya thought of gallant knights she thought of handsome young men, like Lord Beric Dondarrion before his deaths, or Ser Loras Tyrell, who was so pretty he made Prince Joffrey look homely. Ser Wendel had been fat and balding, with an enormous bushy brown mustache that only increased his resemblance to a walrus. But he died for Robb, she told herself, and that was gallant.

—

That was a question neither Robb, Arya, nor Maester Luwin could answer, but it was on Arya's mind as she listened to the singer sing of a night without end and an enemy without a name. Whyever Stannis had burnt his wife, Jon Snow did not dare leave the Wall for fear Stannis might try something even madder in his absence. Maybe Stannis would burn himself, and stop bothering Jon. 

—

"Lord Bolton!" Arya shouted when the lord drew close, his pink cloak flapping in the wind. "You seem to have misplaced your bastard!"

The snow muffled his answer, but then, Arya didn't really care what he had to say. She didn't want his lies or excuses. She wanted his fear.

She got it, when she flung his son's bloody head at him.

—

With mother she could have poured her heart out, all her confusion and anger and shame. She hadn't wanted to marry Hoarfrost, or bear his children, so why did she feel so upset? The old gods had heard her prayers, had rescued her when Robb's hands were tied; shouldn't she be grateful? The betrothal would be dissolved; Hoarfrost needed a wife who could give him sons. 

"I want my mother," Arya finally sobbed as they were tucking her into bed. 

"I know," said Alys, wrapping Arya in a warm embrace. It was a loss they shared; Alys' mother had died of a bad belly when she was six. 

Jeyne said nothing, just climbed under the covers and curled against Arya's side. Jeyne had never known her mother; she'd died giving her birth. A woman's battle was in the birthing bed, men liked to say, but it was a battle Arya could never lose. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh or start crying again. 

—

Perhaps, if her great-uncle could be a blackfish, Arya could be a blackwolf. Wait, no, that was silly. Rickon was the one with a black direwolf, not her. Or maybe the blackwolf was Jon. Back at Winterfell, Ondrew and Porther had argued over whether Jon Snow should be called the Black Wolf, for the Night's Watch, or the White Wolf, for Ghost's pale fur. Arya didn't care, she just wanted to see him again, and every league took her further from the Wall. 

But closer to Sansa, Arya reminded herself when they stopped.

—

Sansa flinched guiltily. "I know, it's my fault—"

"No, it's not," Arya interrupted. 

"She's right." Olyvar said gloomily. "If I had only sent Trystane home earlier, or had Myrcella's possessions taken away... the responsibility is mine." 

"You're both idiots." Arya slapped the table. "How could either of you have known Cersei would try to kill her own daughter with a- a- magic death veil made of wildfire? Cersei chose to do that, not you." 

—

"The mountains of the Vale are near as cold as the North," Oberyn said, dismissive. "But I promise you, no other men born south of the Neck will welcome a journey to the Wall. The good will King Aegon has earned is fragile as a newborn foal. To ask men to leave hearth and home to fight monsters out of legend, monsters some do not believe to exist—"

Pushed to her limit, Arya snapped. "Are you calling my brother a liar?"

—

Needle was a part of her, it was Jon and her father and Winterfell; so what if it was a little small? 

"You know, it seems rather a waste that you weren't born a boy," Olyvar Rosby said as she climbed back onto her horse. 

"Thank you?" Arya said, baffled. He had meant it as a compliment, she knew, yet somehow it felt like an insult. Why should she want to be a boy? Having a manhood wouldn't make her better at water dancing, it would just make other people act less stupid about it. 

Eddard Stark

Father, father, what have they done to you? He could hear weeping as though Sansa sat beside him.

"I have done it to myself," Ned whispered. "I offered mercy and it will kill my honor as surely as it killed Robert and all my men."

—

I'd die for my honor, but I will not have my daughter die for it.

—

Hush. It was a nightmare only. Even Joffrey would not be so foolish as to order an execution on the stairs of the Sept. Go to sleep, sweet girl.

—

I knew. I love you.

Catelyn Tully Stark

Await your pleasure? I have ridden through fields of ash and seen corpses lying unburied by the road. I have seen fields of grain turned to blackened deserts, and once clear streams fouled by the rotting bodies of the slain. A true king defends the realm, and yet you hold tourneys and feast while my father’s people die and starve. Winter is coming, my lords, and it will devour us all if we do not stand together.

—

They were speaking of how to read a man’s intentions one rainy afternoon when Arya told Catelyn of Syrio Forel and the Sealord’s cat, of looking with the eyes. She spoke little of the water dancer since her return to Riverrun, but once she started the words came pouring out.

“He told me all men are made of water,” Arya said, her eyes staring at her feet. “When you pierce them, the water leaks out and they die.” Arya bit her lip, the way she always did when she was hiding something. A hand squeezed Catelyn’s heart.

“That is true,” she replied softly, thinking of the high road through the Vale and the clansman whose throat she had opened. Arya looked up at her mother, her eyes wide.

“You never,” Arya said. “Sansa only got Joffrey by accident.”

“I did,” Catelyn said, “and I knew what I did. My party was attacked on the road, and I defended myself.”

—

"How far do you think they’ll get?" Lord Walder asked as Ser Hosteen and Ser Jared approached with wary steps. "There's twenty of my sons and only one of yours, heh. My boys will be after him as soon as the knife is away from my throat."

So many sons and grandsons, Catelyn thought, looking about the hall. So many grudges, so many rivalries, and only one inheritance.

"I’m afraid your sons will be too busy to chase mine, my lord," Catelyn said. Lord Walder sucked in air, confused, and she slit his throat from ear to ear.

—

The world was going dim, visions shining against her eyelids. She saw Robb handing a babe to a brown-haired maid. She saw Sansa singing in a ring of weirwood saplings. She saw Arya grown to beauty, her smile sharp as her sword. She saw Bran, no longer a boy but a handsome youth astride a prancing horse; she saw Rickon kissing a girl in a meadow of spring flowers.

Last of all she saw Ned, his grey eyes soft, and then Catelyn Stark saw no more.

Robb Stark

Our plan was to march south, free the Riverlands from the Lannisters, and demand the return of Lord Eddard and my sister. We cannot march on King's Landing without marching through the Riverlands, and we cannot abandon my mother's and my grandfather's people to be slaughtered. Let us join our strength to the strength of the Riverlands and set our terms at swordpoint.

—

My lords have long memories, and say it was the King in the North who drove the Lannisters from the Riverlands, not Stannis Baratheon. As matters stand, your following is less than five thousand men. Lords do not change allegiance unless they see good reason to do so; a wise king would court them, not command them. Your ancestor Aegon the Conqueror may have taken Seven Kingdoms with numbers just as small, but unless Your Grace has a dragon hidden within the Nightfort, you cannot hope to follow Aegon's example.

—

"Uncle Benjen could still come back," he insisted, once he could trust himself to speak. "I did, didn't I?"

"By the grace of the gods," Robb said. "But though I will thank them for this miracle until my dying day, I dare not hope for a second."

Bran Stark

I told you the dreams were true.

—

STOP, the red star boomed, pulsing in time with the shriveled heart, faster and faster. Dimly the broken boy was aware of a shimmering net fraying to pieces; he ignored it, reaching for the ribs again. STOP, YOU FOOLISH BOY—

"My name is BRAN!" He screamed, and yanked the corpse from its throne, flinging it to shatter against the stone floor. 

—

And right behind them, charging through the snow, a brother in black and a king in a bronze crown, with what seemed like all the men in the North chasing at their heels. 

When they were boys, Jon had always been the better runner by far. Not so today. Robb's legs pumped with desperate fury as he closed the distance between them; he did not even seem to notice when his crown went flying from his head. No, he had eyes only for Bran, whom he reached a scant moment after Jon. 

—

Suddenly, an awful stench assailed Bran's nose. 

"What in the seven hells is that smell?" Robb said, gagging. 

Jon frowned; Grey Wind and Ghost looked up, sniffing, their ears flattened. What it was, they did not know, only that it was a beast, something big and powerful. But Bran knew, just as he knew that stench, though he had only smelled it within the weirwood roots. 

"That," Bran said, his heart as bitter as the cold, "is the smell of dragon." 

Rickon Stark

"Don't let Robb hear you say things like that. You're almost nine, you have to act like a prince, not a wildling."

"You were nine when you left," Rickon said suddenly. 

—

"I don't want to visit stupid Last Hearth. When I grow up, I'm going to go beyond the Wall, and live in the wilds and do whatever I want, all by myself."

"What about Wylla?" Arya asked. "You can't abandon your betrothed." 

That made him pause; he liked Wylla Manderly. 

"She can be a spearwife," he decided. "And she'll sew my clothes and tell stories at the campfire, and Shaggy and I will hunt snowbears and giant elk. And we'll cuddle every night," he said, giving her an angry look. As if it were her fault that Robb had decided it was improper for a boy of nine and a maid of fifteen to share a bed when Rickon had bad dreams. 

—

Stubborn, Rickon shook his head, his gaze fixed on his boots. Jon's heart fluttered in his chest, as though it might shatter itself to pieces. "Please?"

And Rickon looked. The world seemed to hold its breath as he stared, his blue eyes wide and frightened. Jon waited, hoping for a flash of recognition, a cry of joy, perhaps even an embrace. Instead, Rickon tilted his head, squinting.

"You gave me sweets," he said at last.

Brynden Tully

"There is a reason no one goes north in winter," Oberyn continued. He inclined his head at Big Bucket Wull and the northmen beside him. "No offense intended. Northmen are doughty enough to endure the intense cold, the deep snow and thick ice, but we southron men are not bred for such frozen climes." 

"Yet the knights of the Vale have endured," Brynden Blackfish pointed out. 

Tyrion Lannister

Two Starks, a steward’s daughter, and a maid. Tell me, sweet sister, how do four girls not yet flowered vanish?

—

Sansa Stark is as dangerous as one of Tommen's kittens.

—

I’d offer you Littlefinger’s head on a spike for losing the other girl, but alas, dear sister, my arms are too short for digging up graves.

—

You witless vicious bitch! What were you thinking? That woman was as dangerous as Moonboy! Do you want your second son to live longer than the first?

—

I am not Ned Stark. I've served you well, better than you know, and these are my thanks? You may be my sister, but you're as stupid as you are cruel. Try me again, and I swear I'll choke the life from you.

Olyvar Sand

Perhaps that was what a true knight was. Someone who refused to stand aside, who took the path of righteousness even when the road was steep; who ignored his own wants for the needs of the realm.

Perhaps a true knight was even a frightened boy, still fighting with wet breeches and a broken arm.

—

"Just so. Ser Kevan prevailed upon her that Lord Tywin's honor demanded that the treaty be upheld."

Olyvar was so startled that he almost spat out his wine.

"His what?"

—

Olyvar stared at them, appalled. "Have you forgotten the Targaryen blood that runs in my veins? The blood of Aegon the Conqueror, whose rage turned half of Dorne to desolation? The blood of Viserys the First, whose amiable negligence led to the Dance of the Dragons? The blood of Aegon the Fourth, whose deliberate malice tore the realm asunder with decades of Blackfyre rebellions? The blood of Rhaegar, whose selfish obsession with prophecy led to the rape of young Lyanna, her death in childbed, and the slaughter of poor Jonquil and Gawaen?"

—

The growing curve of her belly, though, that was new, as new and as frightening as the sudden lack of headaches which portended her monthly moonblood. Sansa had not spoken of it, not yet. That was for the best, when it was too early to be certain. He could still recall how Ellaria had wept to lose her third babe, the one who ought to have come between Obella and Dorea. And poor Daenerys, rising from her bath... no, do not think of that, not now.

—

Olyvar opened his cloak for a moment, to show the regalia he wore underneath. Sweetrobin stared, his nose running as he bit his lip until it bled. 

"The three-headed dragon is for House Targaryen, but I don't know the orange bird."

"It is a phoenix," Olyvar said as he returned to securing the chains. "A bird of legend who cannot die, for it rises from the ashes of its own funeral pyre. So you see, we are both Winged Knights."

—

"His name was Jojen," Lord Snow said when they were gone. "Jojen Reed, son of Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch. I am not sure how he perished. Bran will not speak of him, other than to say that he died bravely. I cannot ask Lady Meera, and Theon doesn't know."

"Theon?" It couldn't be Greyjoy; surely there must be plenty of other northmen and ironborn named Theon.

It was. Of course it was. Seven forbid anything make sense. When King Robb returned, Olyvar half expected him to announce that Lord Eddard Stark was waiting without, his head under his arm, here to provide council in this time of need. Or perhaps Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, or the last hero himself. Why not?

—

"Late?" King Aegon's fury burst forth like dragonflame, sudden and white-hot; outside, he heard Viserion screech. "You speak to me of being late?" He yanked at his left sleeve, shoving it up to reveal the mottled flesh beneath. "I won these scars serving as your sister's champion against the Mountain. Should I reproach you for not being there to save her from the Lannisters? It was I who spirited her from King's Landing, not you, just as it was I who sailed across the world to treat with the dragon queen."

"Daenerys—"

"Is no threat to the Seven Kingdoms," King Aegon said, ruthlessly cutting him off. "Because I convinced her to remain in Meereen. I claimed Viserion, I fought Euron Greyjoy twice, I fought Tarly, I dealt with King's Landing going up in fucking flames... the south is an utter mess, my small council didn't even want me to come for at least a few more months, and I came anyway, because I swore to come as fast as I fucking could!"

Deziel Dalt

"Of course," Deziel replied. "But if one more damn Reacherman asks me about the Summer Isles, I'll shove a lemon up his arse."

“I never understood what drew you to her. Arianne hates getting dirty with a passion; I don’t think she ever sets foot in a garden unless there’s a well tended path.” 

“I…” Ser Deziel paused, thoughtful. “It was never about whether or not she loved plants as I do. What drew me to Arianne was her spirit, her determination, the strength of her convictions. The most beautiful trees are not those with dainty blossoms or graceful limbs, but those that survive despite adversity, that persevere even in the poorest soil."

—

Ser Deziel laughed. “You knew that was not what I meant. Ah, well. Perhaps I’ll meet a beauty on our travels."

—

"We knew the risks of facing a dragon queen," said Deziel. "If not the full reason why Prince Doran saw fit to send us across the sea. A Dornish king upon the Iron Throne is worth my life." 

Nymeria Sand

"We could say she escaped." 

"The bitch queen would love that." Nym laughed without humor. "Such a gentle, understanding woman. She would never blame us for such an escape, or send an assassin after the girl, or demand that the Tyrells march on Dorne to avenge such treachery. Even if Ser Kevan restrained her, the girl would never be able to marry again, not until you died. Although," she mused. "I suppose if she escaped north, Robb Stark might have you murdered so that he could marry her off to one of his bannermen."  

—

"Evil men, all of them," Nym agreed. "Every house has had its monsters and its fools, the Targaryens more than most. But unless you've been concealing a desperate desire to wed Meria—" 

Olyvar made a disgusted noise, nauseated by the very idea. 

"Exactly. You are not a Targaryen in any way but that of blood." Her mouth twisted. "No more than I am a Vhassar, utterly useless for aught but managing slaves and whining about how tiring it is to manage slaves."  

Brienne Tarth

“A devoted companion,” Brienne remarked from atop her piebald courser. “Animals seem to favor you, my lady.”

—

Brienne ignored her. "When Renly died, I meant to avenge him and then follow him to the grave. Your lady mother would not let me. Lady Catelyn gave me new purpose, to find and defend her daughters and return them to her arms. I failed that quest, but since you accepted my oath of service, I have done my utmost to protect you. I followed you to Sunspear, to Meereen, to Dragonstone, and never regretted it, not for a moment. Now..." Brienne hesitated. "Sansa, I want to go home. I want to see my father, if he yet lives; I want to walk upon the shores of Tarth and wed my betrothed. Yet when you pressed me to visit, how could I accept? You had so few worthy swords about you; I could not abandon my duty and leave my queen defenseless."

"Then the gods saw fit to take a hand. I cannot guard you now, perhaps ever again. As such..." Brienne took a deep breath. "I ask that you release me from my vows."

Daenerys Targaryen

I offered mercy. I let you keep your pyramids, and tried to forget the blood mixed into their bricks. I let you keep your gold, and tried to forget you earned it by breaking men beneath the lash. I let you keep your lives, and tried to forget how many you killed over centuries of slaving. And you took my mercy for weakness, and murdered my children, thinking me helpless to resist. I am a dragon; I fear neither the harpy nor her sons.

—

Giddy, Dany laughed as she cried out blessings, first in High Valyrian, then Dothraki, Ghiscari, Naathi, in Lhazarene and in the Summer Tongue, blessing after blessing until her voice grew hoarse and she had to stop. Only then did she realize that she had not bothered with the Common Tongue. And why would I? She thought as she watched her knights try to clear the way. After all, none of her people spoke it.

—

Even in her languor, mind blurred by the dreamlike state between sleep and waking, she could not reconcile such disparate images. Surely it must be Olyvar who was wrong, led astray by his mother. Daenerys could not blame Princess Elia for casting Rhaegar in a villainous light; she might do the same, had Drogo abandoned her and their children for some younger, prettier girl. If anything it was a mark of great kindness and understanding that Elia blamed her husband rather than Lyanna. Still, to say the northern girl was but a helpless victim went too far. Had not Daenerys tamed Drogo and bent him to her will, though she was even younger than Lyanna? At thirteen she was a khaleesi, at fourteen the mother of dragons, at fifteen a queen and a conqueror.

—

Dany looked upon the corpse of her dragon, upon the ruin of her garden. Somehow, her heart still beat the same, stronger, even. The olive tree would grow back, just like the groves below. Some of the plants might yet be saved, the rest replaced; the pools could be scoured and filled with fresh clean water. It would take time, she knew, but someday the garden would bloom again, would ring with children's laughter. Arm in arm with Irri, she left the garden. 

Tywin Lannister

"If you are referring to the capture of Sansa Stark, then yes, it is true," Lord Tywin said calmly. Cersei smiled a lioness's smile, all sharp white teeth.

"I want her head."

"You'll not have it. Sansa Stark is our only northern hostage at present, and she may prove useful."

—

“You will speak of this to no one. I shall find some excuse to send Cersei to the silent sisters without the tongue that led you astray.”

“Father, please, it was not her fault, she is your daughter—”

“SHE IS A WHORE!”

Cersei Lannister

It was a pity no one would get to see the plays, the queen thought, smirking. Especially the one about Lann the Clever, with Tommen in the lead role. He was learning his lines quite diligently, though his mother would have been the better choice. Cersei was the proud legacy of Lann's ancient line, as cunning as her forebear, if not moreso. Someday women would fight for the chance to play Queen Cersei in mummer's shows, and her grateful descendants would build shrines in her name. 

—

"I am disappointed in you, Lord Varys," she tsked. "They say one should never underestimate a eunuch, but to underestimate a queen is even more foolish. Tell me, which Targaryen managed to sire a bastard in secret?"

"I was trueborn," the eunuch said, his voice different somehow. "And—"

"Oh," the queen sighed as she rose to her feet. "I beg your pardon; I forgot that I don't care. Ser Lyn, if you would?"

—

"Neither." Gerren Wendwater dared to look her in the eye, the insolent knave. "The pretender had twice as many men as we expected, traitors from the crownlands who flocked to his banners. Again and again our foot attacked their center, yet the Golden Company held firm. The dragon was behind them, roaring and breathing flame, yet the pretender did not take flight. When Lord Tarly realized it could not fly due to the winds, he led our cavalry against the dragon—"

"The dragon was not even in the air?" Cersei could scarcely believe what she was hearing. "The gods were good enough to keep the dragon on the ground, and Tarly still lost?"

—

"The eunuch made fools of us all," Lord Crakehall rumbled, giving her a handkerchief. "I never trusted the man."

"Eunuchs aren't men," the squire said.

"Too true," Lord Wendwater agreed, his mouth twisted. "And he was a Lyseni, raised on plots and poisons."

"My lord is right," the queen said, giving him a sad smile as she dabbed at her eyes. "The men of the Free Cities cannot be trusted to follow the laws of gods and men. Guest right, kinslaying, incest, these crimes come to them as easily as breathing."

—

Granted, she had briefly considered the absurd notion that the Martells had raised the children in their midst. Olyvar Sand was the right age, his eyes a rich true purple... then she had laughed at her own foolishness. There was no sign of Rhaegar's beauty in his face, nor in his dark hair and golden skin. Besides, the Dornish would never have dared parade Rhaegar's son before Lord Tywin, whose keen eyes could pierce men down to their very souls, whose mind was sharper than Valyrian steel.

—

He was no valonqar, only a dwarf that no one ever loved.

Margaery Tyrell

Cersei tapped her chin, savoring the girl's rare loss of composure. "Only fourteen, and already plotting your way to the throne. Such a pity. At least when my lord father set his sights on Rhaegar Targaryen he meant to make me an honest bride, not a whore."

"That was long before my birth," Margaery said, her voice eerily calm. "Your Grace must forgive my ignorance, yet I seem to recall Rhaegar wed Elia of Dorne before he made off with Lyanna Stark. Was he visiting your bed in secret?"

—

"We dared not, Your Grace," said the maid who could only be Margaery Tyrell. She cast herself at Robb's feet, sprawling across the Myrish carpet like a mummer in a play. "We feared to ask mercy from any save Your Grace himself, lest we be imprisoned for our lord father's folly in supporting Queen Cersei."

She began to weep, her bosom heaving. Already beautiful, her grief seemed to make her even lovelier. Yet Robb remained unmoved, and after a moment, Margaery composed herself.

"Your Grace is even nobler and comelier than the singers say—"

"There is a time and place for pageantry, my lady," Robb said. "This is not one of them."

To Arya's amazement, Margaery smiled grimly.

"Oh, praise the Seven. May I rise, Your Grace?"

—

"Our lord father swore to Lord Tywin that not a single ship would you have, but as Lord Tywin's daughter killed him—"

Margaery choked back rage. "So, Your Grace. Safety for myself, and grain for the North. Hardly the stuff of songs, but enough to forge alliance."

—

"Do you regret it?"

Margaery blinked at him, confused. "My marriage?" When Jon nodded, she gave a soft laugh. "No, not for a moment. True, I miss the splendor of Highgarden and the bustle of King's Landing, but here I finally have a place, one that I chose for myself. My husband is a man of honor, not an anxious boy trapped beneath his bitch of a mother's heel. I may not have his love, but he shall love our child as I do, and the child shall love us both. The air is crisp, the skies are sapphire blue, and the snow may be irksome, but it sparkles like diamonds when the sun comes out."

Jeyne Westerling

“You might offer comfort to Lady Roslin. I would offer it myself, but as I am Edmure's sister...”

Jeyne nodded, eyes bright. “A queen should be kind to her ladies.”

—

"What is it?" Robb asked, alarm rising in his voice. Jeyne knelt, pressing the back of her hand to Sweet Steffon's brow.

"Winter fever," she breathed.

Gilly

The crows didn't take wives, or so Sam had told her a dozen times, but Gilly had never known a man without a wife, or a daughter without a husband. Sometimes the younger sisters asked about spearwives, those strange women who had spears instead of husbands, only to be hushed by those who knew better. Gilly couldn't use a spear, but maybe if she learned to read, she could be a bookwife.

—

The prayers to the Father were the hardest part of each morning, as Gilly kept her face still and smooth and tried not to think of Craster. The Warrior was easier; she thought of her mother, Grindis, always guarding the young ones from Craster's rage; she thought of Sam, of the terror on his plump face as he led her from Craster's Keep, of his wide eyes as he stumbled out of the longhall to find her and the babe surrounded by dead men with burning blue eyes. She had never known that a crow could be so frightened, yet he saved her all the same.

The Smith was Astrid and her daughters planting barley, oats, and rye, Freltha carving wood with her chisel, Hilsa cobbling shoes with her awl, Birra grinding herbs with her pestle and Briwa mending clothes with her bone needles. The Maiden was Buttercup singing in the summer sun and Dalwen cooing over a mean old garron. The Crone was Ferny, who taught her how to watch and wait and how to make herself disappear when need be.

—

Brandon Stark had made Sam swear a vow of silence. So had Jojen Reed, and Coldhands last of all. But no one had made Gilly swear. 

Edythe

Septon Meribald turned to her, his face kindly despite the enormous bushy brows that hid his eyes and the ugly wen on the tip of his nose. "Is this what you wish, child? To swear your life to a motherhouse?" 

"It is," she answered. An easy choice, and the best she'd ever made. 

—

No other heads were yet raised. The world itself seemed to hold its breath. Confused, Edythe looked up. 

A rainbow arched over Harrenhal, its colors brighter than any silks or jewels. 

"Thank you, Crone," she whispered. Her mouth was dry; that would not do. She licked her lips, clearing her throat before shouting for perhaps the first time in her life. 

"HIGH SEPTON!"

—

Edythe's mood did not improve when, after the bells tolled three and they paused to pray to the Maiden, the chatter moved from Lord Snow to King Aegon. They should not even call him a king, not when His High Holiness did not, but Edythe lacked the will to correct them. She stitched away, determined to keep her mouth shut, until Sister Maude began wondering whether King Aegon was handsome or plain. As if it mattered; besides, there was no one who could hold a candle to their Lord Edmure Tully. 

Jaime Lannister

“When I wish to hear your opinion, I shall ask for it,” Lord Tywin said coldly. “Cersei shall wed and bed whomever I please.”

“That hasn’t stopped her from bedding me.”

—

Feast your eyes, Connington! What fools we are, to let a eunuch and a cheesemonger deceive us so. Behold! Aegon Targaryen, the dragon's heir.

—

"You would put Cersei in a motherhouse?" Lannister threw back his head and laughed. "What have the poor septas done to deserve such misery?"

—

"You," the younger girl had said, her voice dripping with contempt. 

"Me," Jaime drawled. "Were you expecting someone else?" 

—

I loved Tyrion. And you of all people, sister, should know the things I do for love.

Meria Sand

If bastard girls were harlots, and Dornishwomen sluts, why, then a Dornish bastard must be the most wanton woman in the Seven Kingdoms, eager to share her cunt with any passing knave. Unwelcome hands and mouths had made bold with Meria far too often, even those of a few of the men she had cultivated as allies. Thank the gods she had been able to keep all of them at bay. The lords she refused with soft words, the knights and squires with hard slaps and a request to Prince Oberyn, who proceeded to find an excuse to beat them senseless in the yard. 

—

"What news, my lady?"

"The Seven are with us," Rhaenys assured him, handing him the letters. "Dragonstone is ours."

Irri

Khal Drogo did not deserve to ride the night lands with the father who bounced her on his knee. May your soul burn in hell, Irri thought viciously. The desert air was dry, but the breeze across the shore was damp upon her skin. When at last her mouth was wet, Irri spat four times, once for each of the four hooves of the horse god. Once for her father, once for her brothers, once for her sister, and once for her khaleesi, who had slain the khal in her attempt to save him.

—

The night was black as pitch when Irri rose from her featherbed, desperate for a breath of air that was not stale. She dressed herself in the dark, quietly so she did not wake her handmaids. Let them rest; Irri remembered well how poorly she slept when she spent her nights at the foot of her khaleesi's bunk.

—

Irri rested her elbows on the rail, unmoved. She was not the same scared girl who sailed from Qarth, who retched at the slightest swell and hid below decks ->with the rest of her tiny khalasar. Forty days they had spent upon the open sea, and every single day she had come above decks to test her will. Worse foes —>awaited her than the god of the poison sea, last and least loved child of the moon and sun. The god of the poison sea was indifferent to men, saving his hatred for his elder brother, the lord of all horses, who'd won the love of the goddess of the earth.

No, she might respect the poison sea, but she did not fear him.

—

Where their skin was deathly pale, his was a rich golden brown; where their hair was silver, his was smoky steel; where their eyes were pure violet or indigo, his were purple, ringed with amber. Thankfully, Daenerys seemed oblivious to the fact that Ser Olyvar was far more handsome than her husband.

Though he still cannot match Rakharo, Irri thought as she watched the Westerosi vault into his saddle and dig his heels into the dragon's scales. And Rakharo would never be foolish enough to trade a horse for a dragon.

Jhiqui

Jhiqui's idea was of equal use. Her lush bosom and swaying hips concealed years of hidden resentment worthy of a muscled warrior. Yet she had been nervous when she explained her plan, watching Dany as though she might strike the handmaid.

"You have forgotten the Yunkish freedmen, khaleesi," Jhiqui explained, her hands fidgeting in her lap. "They are no warriors, but... a slave must know her master, if she is to survive. She must know what pleases him, what makes him angry. She must know his habits and his men as well as she knows her own name."

Irri stared at Dany as her sister spoke, an odd, sad expression on her face.

"Meereen is filled with freedmen from Yunkai. They know which pavilions belong to which master, they know when and where he prefers to sleep each night. A few dozen slaves could steal into their camp and slit their throats before the sun rises. The bedslaves will flee; the sellswords will take the masters' gold and consider their work finished."

Tommen Baratheon

Tommen thought that was silly. Hounds belonged in the kennels with their pack, where they could play together. And hounds would bark and howl and jump all over you, not like cats. Cats were quiet, solitary creatures. If they bothered you at all, it would be with a soft meow or brushing against your legs. Then you knew you could pet them, even pick them up and cuddle them, if they were as friendly as Ser Pounce. 

—

"I mean—" Tommen cleared his throat, trying to sound more kingly. "We shall bring Prince Oberyn, and Lord Crakehall, and Ser Ronnet, and all their men-at-arms. It will be no different than our rides through the city, and my lady mother lets me take them almost every sennight. Besides, I am thirteen now. Daeron the Young Dragon was only a year older when he set out to conquer Dorne."

Ser Addam's face cleared; he almost looked proud. "You are the king, Your Grace," he agreed. "And as brave as your Uncle Jaime."

—

"I'm the usurper!" Tommen stood, his whole body shaking. "I'm a- a bastard, an abomination! Cella wouldn't lie to me, she wouldn't—" Tommen paled. "Poor Lady Cedra, oh, gods what have I done?"

"These are forgeries!" the queen snarled. She ripped the letter from his grasp. "Lies, poison, a trick to make you give up your rightful throne.
"

"It's not my throne," Tommen said hollowly. "I told Talla to fetch the Grand Maester. I will summon the small council, and tell them I will bend the knee. If I join ->the Faith, maybe I can make amends—"

"No!" Cersei hissed, cutting him off. "We cannot give up the throne—"

"I'm the king, not you!"

Myrcella Baratheon

"Joff was a monster," Myrcella sniffled. She blew her nose. "Your Aegon will be a better king, if he's even half as brave and gentle as my Trys."

—

"Oh no." Trystane watched as the guards left the road, following the sound of the gull. "Oh, my mother is going to kill me."

"No, she won't," Myrcella pulled him close and kissed him. "They can't touch us, they can't hurt us."

She tugged her hood down, throwing the golden veil over them both.

"Mother, please," she breathed. "Hear me roar."

And a roar echoed over the world. In the same instant a great whoosh of flame leapt up, then vanished, leaving nothing, nothing but the scent of ash, and the screaming of a gull.

Theon Greyjoy

But I can see you, Theon Greyjoy. Theon Turncloak. Theon Kinslayer. I see you, and find you wanting. Yet while there is life, there is hope. Repent of your sins, and I shall try to help free you from your chains. 

What sins? Theon scoffed, his mouth dry. I've done nothing wrong. 

Bel

Bel's nostrils flared as she heard Joss stomp up from the cellar and go outside bellowing for Hubard. No man would ever do such a thing to their Wren. Noble, merchant, or sellsword, Joss would gut them with his cleaver, if Bel didn't get them with her knife first. Joss might have been the one to give birth, but Wren was theirs. 

—

How Bel loved her city! Much as she had loved Sunspear as a girl, it could not compare to King's Landing.

Jon Snow

"At least Margaery does not feign to love me," Robb continued. "That I could not abide, not when I know I shall never love her. She cannot touch my heart, not when it lies buried with my Jeyne." 

Jon could not help himself. "At least you have a wife. Not the one you would have chosen, but a wife nonetheless, to give you children, to warm your bed and share your burdens." 

—

"Lord Eddard would have let the wildlings flee south." Whether that was another lie Jon could not say, nor did he care. It did not matter, so long as Robb believed him. I swore a vow. "Justice comes before all else. Would you let innocents die because you fear your own bannermen, because you are too craven to bring them to heel?" 

—

Jon should rejoice, like Robb had when they first heard the news. Yet he felt numb, distant. What did it matter? The only Lannister he still remembered was Tyrion, promising to help Bran. And so he had; the new saddle being made for Bran was based on one of Tyrion's design. When his brother rode again, it would be because a dwarf once took pity upon a cripple. Whatever crimes Tyrion had done after that, his kindness had outlived him. Jon could not despise Tyrion, not as he despised the Kingslayer and Queen Cersei. But much as he hated them, their deaths had availed him nothing. Lord Eddard was still no more than a memory; he would never see his father again. 

—

"Who are you to tell me what I want?" Jon said hotly. "I've spent years wondering about my mother, from the moment I first realized I did not have one. I must have asked my father about her a thousand times, but he would not even say her name. Now he is dead, and there is no one I can ask but you." His voice broke. "Please, I don't care that she was a camp follower, just tell me something, anything, even if all you knew was her name." 

Mordryd Lydden

"Your Grace is too kind," Mordryd said as he waited for his tart to cool. "We Lyddens are fond of blackberries. As a boy I was wont to stuff my face with fresh berries; my sister usually washed me off before our mother could catch me at it."

"Really? I cannot imagine Lady Briony holding with such nonsense."

Cersei had only met Jeyne Farman's Lydden mother once or twice. She vaguely recalled the woman as stern and stiff. It was no surprise that the old dowager had survived the ironborn raids whilst her son Lord Sebaston Farman sailed hither and yon to no avail.

"I should think he means Lady Lysa Lydden," Ser Kevan corrected her. "Ser Addam Marbrand's mother, you remember, the one with the palsy."

Mordryd smiled sadly. "Neither, my lord. I didn't expect you to remember, but I had a third sister, who perished at a young age."

Ser Kevan gave a sorrowful shake of his head. "My apologies, I had forgotten."

"It has been many years," Lord Mordryd sighed. "I daresay very few remember Gwendolyn, save those who knew her well."

—

Lydden's face turned hard. "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you? No, I suppose not. You were not yet born when Castamere drowned. Kevan did not remember, not even when I challenged him to his face, even though he was there. I was not, yet I cannot forget, not since the day the raven came." 

—

Lydden spat. "Hero indeed. Oathbreaker, murderer, craven, more like, damn him. Well, he enjoys his gilded tomb no longer. Whilst you dined, I entered the Hall of Heroes. It was the work of a moment for my men to pry open the tomb. Lord Tywin's bones looked the same as any other man's; it's a wonder he did not give orders that they be gilded. His tomb is empty now. As Gwen's bones were never laid to rest, it was only fitting Tywin endure the same fate."

"What did you do to him?" Cersei demanded, the words bursting from her lips before she could stop herself. 

 

Lydden shrugged. "I had thought of having Tywin buried in an unmarked grave amongst the common rabble, but that seemed too much work, and I was eager to see you before you realized aught was amiss. There was a privy close at hand; I tossed his bones down the shaft myself."

Gwendolyn Lydden

"I'll miss you," Mordryd said to the air above her head. The door creaked; her brother pulled away as her maid entered, bearing clean shifts and smallclothes from the washerwomen. 


"I'll be back before you know it," Gwen said, gesturing for the maid to lay the clothes in the chest with her carefully folded gowns.

—

Darkness consumed her. No longer did she resist her grief; it carried her, floating upon a sea of broken dreams. She watched herself embrace men with blurred faces, each of the husbands she might have known. Lusty Banefort groped her, aloof Crane ignored her, bowlegged Piper danced with her, and heartless Lannister turned away at the sight of her tears. She watched herself grow fat with child and play with the babes she would never bear, saw herself pray in a septa’s robes, saw herself old and wrinkled and content.

—

Whatever else happened, she wished she could see Mordryd one last time. Her sweet brother, what would he do without her to look after him? Would he even remember her when she was gone? Heartsick, she wept, wept for her stolen future, wept for her brother, wept for herself, wept until her eyes ran dry. 

And still the water rose. 

Little Bee

At least Lady Catelyn looked happier than the bride did. Aunt Roslin was whiter than she'd been the time her brother Benfrey got kicked in the head by an angry horse. Little Bee would never be so ungrateful; she would have laughed and smiled all night if she got to wear silk and wed a lord paramount.

—

"Time for you to join the other babies," added Sarra, smirking. 

"At least babies don't get pimples." The mark hit home; Serra and Sarra turned an ugly red that made the white bumps scattered across their faces look even worse. 

—

That reminded Little Bee of a question that had long confused her. "Why is she called Gatehouse Ami? Uncle Merrett's chambers are across from ours, not by the gatehouse." 

—

"Do you want to go with them?" The knight rumbled when Symond at last fell silent. Little Bee peeked at her uncles for a moment, at the blood that splattered Aenys' bald head, at the dagger sheathed at Symond's hip. 

"No," she whispered. "They're not my uncles. They're kinslayers."

Ser Perwyn

"We are not Freys," Perwyn snapped. Robb tilted his head, the very picture of dignified confusion.

"A father may disown a son who shames him. Just so may a son disown the father. Lord Walder's actions are an abomination before the old gods and the new. Never again shall we wear the towers of House Frey, nor claim the name of the man who sired us."

-

"Knowing the princess, she'll get bored soon," said Ser Perwyn, sounding resigned. "Thank the Seven. Were she a few years younger, no doubt she'd be trying to climb it, and I'd have to get her down before she broke her neck somersaulting off its back." 

Merissa of Sherrer

Tears welled in her eyes; Jeyne looked startled. 

“Winterfell isn’t Sherrer,” she said in a soothing tone. “But it’s a great castle, not a pitiful little holdfast.” 

“So? Gendry still misses the Street of Steel, why can’t I miss Sherrer?” Meri sniffled. “I liked working with the cows. And all the other servants, they don’t know the tales my mother told me, or the songs we sang, or if they do, the words or the tune are wrong!”

—

"Meri gets a foul temper, during her moonblood," Jeyne said later, as she helped Arya take off her gown. Her voice was lofty and superior, as if she were seventy, not seventeen. "That's why she forgot herself last night." 

"No, it isn't!" Meri snapped from across the tent, where she was mending a torn hem. "I lost my temper because you refuse to understand! The folk of the hollow hill are our people, they should have come with us, and you wouldn't even let me ask!"

Jeyne Poole

“If [Littlefinger] weren’t dead I’d kill him myself,” Lady Catelyn said, fierce as a direwolf.

“He’s dead?” Jeyne’s eyes were wide with hope. Lady Catelyn nodded.

—

"The North may not be my home anymore, but I'm still a Stark of Winterfell!"

"And his lady wife, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms," Jeyne reminded her. "It is only natural that King Aegon would think to have you remain here. His lady mother is sickly, and his sister has her own affairs. He needs someone trustworthy to keep an eye on them, and on his new small council. Someone who will send regular ravens to keep him informed of all that happens in the city and at court. Who will do it, if not you?"

—

The same realization struck both Sansa and Jeyne in unison. Sansa grinned, almost giddy. Jeyne covered her face with her hands and gave a most unladylike groan. 

"I don't want to," Jeyne said, almost on the verge of tears. "I missed you so much, and we've only been together for what, two moons, if that?"

Folk of The Hollow Hill

The grandmother's cloudy eyes watched her thread, not even glancing at Arya. "Mebbe your sister takes comfort in her needle as you do in yours. We've enough women as can spin and mend. Sides, most o' them never had a bit of pretty like that before, let alone made by a great lady."

—

"A dragon, Seven strike me down if I lie," Damina shrieked. "Last night, at sunset, it landed on t' Isle of Faces-mmph!"

Smallfolk of the Westerlands

"[Mordryd Lydden] fucked t' queen harder than her brother did," a hunchbacked crone cackled as she spun thread. "Serves t' bitch right." 

—

"Aye," spat the pox-scarred man. "Lord Tywin's taxes were high, but ye could pay 'em, if you weren't too fond o' a full belly when the harvest were poor. He'd a never raised t' taxes in winter, nor had his knights hangin' beggin' brothers from trees. That's what comes o' havin' a woman rule. T' moonblood puts their humors out o' balance and makes 'em veer back an' forth like t' tides. Either they're softer than goose feathers, or crueler than poison."

"Not my ma," the redheaded boy objected. 

—

"Aunt Alys, is that you?" 

"Not this again," one of the older merchants groaned. "Amory, half of Lannisport has green eyes, not just your aunt. I don't care how sweet she was to you when you were a toddler, you can't bother every silent sister we meet." The merchant cuffed the lad's ear, then turned to Cersei. "Begging your pardons, sister. The boy can't seem to get it through his head that his aunt had a common look."

—

"Shh, shh," the merchant said, crouching down. "You needn't be afraid, sweetlings. That's not an outlaw, that's a hedge knight."

"Is that his wife?" lisped the youngest child, a girl no more than three. 

"No, dear," said the merchant. "Don't you see her robes? That's a silent sister; she's the Stranger's wife. The hedge knight is sworn to protect her, just like he's sworn to defend the weak." 

Smallfolk of Kingslanding

"Why not?" Nettles scowled. "We're good—"

"—dragon men, up Crackclaw way," Ynys finished, rolling her eyes. "And if you let her get started, she'll go on about how Prince Rhaegar was the noblest prince to ever live, and him and Princess Elia meant to wed Lyanna together, and be just like Aegon the Conqueror and his wives." Ynys made a face. "Only without the incest bit." 

Smallfolk of Harrenhal

"It changed," Pia told her, shyly pointing at the awful white heart tree with its grim face. "I hid here, after, after the northmen left." 

The girl hugged herself, shuddering. Small wonder. What Edythe had heard of Lord Bolton's brief rule over Harrenhal was enough to make a woman faint. It was a miracle Pia had survived months of torment without getting with child; the girl must surely be barren.

"It used to look angrier, before," she continued, unbothered by Edythe's silence. "The eyes scared me, they were so full of hate."

Faith of the Seven

"Oh, give me that," snapped Septon Timoth. He snatched the letter, his eyes darting back and forth as he read. "The Queen Regent demanded the Most Devout name a new High Septon at once. They chose—" He blinked, his eyebrows leaping toward his hairline. "They chose Luceon."

—

"What happened to the daughter, that's what I want to know," said Septon Gunthor, a Stormlander by birth. "No one knows where Lord Snow sent her, really? Her claim to Storm's End—" 

"War already plagues the Stormlands," Septon Josua said gravely, his silk robes as crimson as blood. "Let us pray no ambitious lord takes hold of Shireen Baratheon and weds her to press her claim. As for this talk of wights and Others... I have heard nothing ill of Septon Tim. The Seven's wroth must be great indeed, if it is their will to curse us with monsters out of children's tales."  

Princess Elia Martell

"Who knows what goes on inside that eunuch's head. Nonetheless. I reminded your uncle that half-truths can be as dangerous as lies, especially when children guess at what they are not supposed to know. When Meria turned sixteen we shared a secret with your cousin Arianne, with each of your sisters, and with each of you. After four moons, only Nym and the pair of you had kept the secrets you were given. Arianne failed for telling me, despite Doran's command that she not breathe a word. Well, he may be Prince of Dorne, but I am your mother, and when Olyvar came of age he could no longer deny me." 

—

"I could not speak, I was so angry," mother Elia said. "And so I bit my tongue, and sent for the children, two of his precious dragon's three heads. Rhaenys came, with the black kitten he gave her before leaving Dragonstone; a wet nurse brought Aegon from his cradle. And Rhaegar smiled, and praised their beauty, and left for the Trident without ever realizing what I had done."

—

"Now, Olyvar, as I was saying." Her voice was different than it had been in council, slower, with deliberate pauses every few words. "If the frigid air of the North cannot temper Elia's wildness, you may send her back to her mother. I can plan a sept or attempt to improve my hellion of a niece, but I do not have the strength to do both."

—

The princess nodded. "Poor, foolish girl. I told Lord Eddard if the gods were good, she would lose the babe Rhaegar claimed he had put in her belly. Girls that age oft miscarry, and my faithless lord husband had left her neither maester nor midwife, only a maid to wait upon her. If the babe survived... well. Lord Eddard might have the nerve to shout at his king, but never to defy him. Rhaegar's last babe would not have lasted a fortnight once Robert knew of it."

Prince Oberyn Martell

"The lords of the Vale will not be sailing from Gulltown to White Harbor at their leisure, not with drowning so likely," said Lord Randyll. "Nor, I think, will they make the long journey to Winterfell by road. Perhaps the bite of winter will help them reconsider swearing fealty to Stark."

"We can only hope," drawled Prince Oberyn.

—

"I miss Dorne every day." His uncle's dark eyes were almost soft. "But Ellaria understands that duty comes first, even before her."

Elia Uller

"Our loss shall be Dorne's gain." Sansa smiled. "I pray you have a safe journey, and a warm welcome at the end of it. No doubt Lady Uller shall be a lovely bride."

"Lady Ellaria is a worthy lady," said Prince Quentyn Martell, his attempt at gallantry as awkward as he was. His wife Lady Gwyneth didn't seem to notice, too busy chatting with Obella Uller.

"My mother is more than worthy," Elia Uller put in, her arms folded across her chest. "My father ought to have wed her long ago."

—

"That was subtle," Elia snorted. "Fuck the Crone's wrinkled arse, I would have had you if I hadn't tired my mare out yesterday."

"What's your excuse for last time?"

Elia glared. "What's your excuse for the time before that?"

Balerion

My name is Buttons, they said respectfully. Do you have a name, my lord?

Long ago, the tomcat answered. I lost my girl and could not find her. Your sister caught me. She kissed me. I remember her scent.

I will find her.

—

"A nightmare, nothing more," Ned soothed, stroking the cat. “All will be well.”

My girl dreamed of a man with a dagger, a ragged voice said.

It was the voice of a weary old man, beaten down by loss but full of rage. It was not a voice he knew. Ned’s blood ran cold. This was no dream.

Willem and Martyn Lannister

Cersei made a moue of distaste. "He nearly had the votes, but the sparrows grow ever bolder. They stalked Septon Ollidor to a brothel and dragged him out naked into the street."

"Disgraceful," muttered Willem, who had just brought a message from the lord hand and had decided to play with a cat whilst awaiting the queen's answer. [...]

"Indeed." Cersei shook her head solemnly. "These sparrows grow far too bold. For smallfolk to assault a member of the Most Devout—"

"He should lose his office," Willem said with a steadfastness she’d never heard from him before. "A septon swears himself to a life of celibacy; to break his vows is to spit upon the Seven."

—

"How dare you," [Cersei] hissed, so venomous that Willem actually recoiled from her. "How dare you turn against your kin, how dare you betray us to the man who slew your father?"

"Father deserved it," Martyn said, cold as ice. "A man has a right to vengeance."

"Castamere was an affront to all the laws of gods and men," Willem said, even colder. "And Father stood by and did nothing, because he worshipped Tywin above all else, even the Seven. The Seven shall judge whether Lord Lydden's vengeance was a sin; at least he granted our father a merciful death. The women and children of Castamere received no such mercy. House Lannister is tainted by Lord Tywin's crimes, and if we do not repent, that taint will be washed away in dragonfire."

Cersei could not believe what she was hearing. "The Rock cannot be taken; a dragon could never get in."

"But dragonflame could, through a thousand windows and vents. Tell me, have you ever seen Harrenhal? Our lady mother says the tops of the towers are naught but molten slag."

"Dorna Swyft," the queen said, "is a frightened hen with the spine of a jellied eel."

"Even if she is, she's still a better woman than you are," Willem flung back. "The Seven-Pointed Star bids a wife be faithful and obedient, a loving mate to help her husband with his labors. Yet as soon as Robert had your maidenhead, you conspired at adultery, incest, and treason! And you!" He whirled on Jaime. "Violence against children is one of the vilest sins, especially for one who has sworn the vows of a knight! Knights are supposed to protect the weak and helpless, not fling them out of windows to their deaths! Have you no honor, have you no heart?"

"He has a heart," Cersei cried. "And it is mine. Jaime was protecting me, he loves me as no man ever loved a woman! We are one soul in two bodies; when we were born, he was clutching me by the foot. He has never loved anyone but me, has never so much as glanced at another. He had my maidenhead, not Robert; we were wed in our hearts long before I ever endured that drunken sot's unwanted touch. The Targaryens wed brother to sister for hundreds of years; why should we be condemned for doing the same?" [...]

"The Targaryens shouldn't have done it either," Willem insisted, so loud the guards turned and looked for a moment. "Paul the Pious was right; incest is an abomination. King Aegon could have burned you for your crimes, he could have had you flayed or torn, but instead he offered to let you live, so long as you surrendered! The Wall and the motherhouse would have been your fate, a gentler fate than either of you deserved, but rather than accept such a generous offer, you burned down half the city!"

"Do you know what it looks like, when a child is burned? Do you know how many perished in the flames, or choked to death on smoke?" The veins in his neck and forehead bulged; Willem was almost as red as his tunic [...]

"I had rather not burn in the seven hells," Martyn growled, "but if I do, it will be for my own sins, not yours."