“When the sun has set, no candle can replace it.”
Dark wings, dark words.
If this is so wrong, why did the gods make it feel so good?
“I have won every battle, yet somehow I’m losing the war.”
And all the time, I stood by the foot of the iron Throne in my white plate, still as a corpse, guarding my liege and all his sweet secrets.
“By what right does the wolf judge the lion? By what right?”
Jaime felt almost sorry for Robb Stark. He won the war on the battlefield and lost it in a bedchamber, poor fool.
“Ser Jaime? I am grateful, but . . . you were well away. Why come back?”
A dozen quips came to mind, each crueler than the one before, but Jaime only shrugged.
“I dreamed of you,” he said.
When your enemies defy you, you must serve them steel and fire. When they go to their knees, however, you must help them back to their feet. Elsewise no man will ever bend the knee to you. And any man who must say ‘I am the king’ is no true king at all.”
Sometimes the storm winds blow so strong a man has no choice but to furl his sails.
“You know nothing, Jon Snow,” she sighed, dying.
Life is not a song. You would learn that one day, to your sorrow.
“Admit it, Imp. Given a choice between fucking Lollys and fighting the Mountain, you’d have your breeches down and cock up before a man could blink.”
“I learned from Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, who could have slain all five of you with his left hand while he was taking with a piss with the right.”
The world was simpler in those days, Jaime thought, and men as well as swords were made of finer steel. Or was it only that he had been fifteen? They were all in their graves now, the Sword of the Morning and the Smiling Knight, the White Bull and Prince Lewyn, Ser Oswell Whent with his black humor, earnest Jon Darry, Simon Toyne and his Kingswood Brotherhood, bluff old Sumner Crakehall. And me, that boy I was . . . when did he die, I wonder? When I donned the white cloak? When I opened Aerys’s throat? That boy had wanted to be Ser Arthur Dayne, but someplace along the way he had become the Smiling Knight instead.
“Clean hands, Sansa. Whatever you do, make certain your hands are clean.”
“Of Joffrey’s death I am innocent. I am guilty of a more monstrous crime.” He took a step toward his father. “I was born. I lived. I am guilty of being a dwarf, I confess it. And no matter how many times my good father forgave me, I have persisted in my infamy.”
“This is folly, Tyrion,” declared Lord Tywin. “Speak to the matter at hand. You are not on trial for being a dwarf.”
“That is where you err, my lord. I have been on trial for being a dwarf my entire life.”
I’ve lost a hand, a father, a son, a sister, and a lover, and soon enough I will lose a brother. And yet they keep telling me House Lannister won this war.
“I’m the bloody Kingslayer, remember? When I say you have honor, that’s like a whore vouchsafing your maidenhood.”
The harsh words had blown away whatever sympathy Jon might have had for Stannis.
“I loved my brother,” he said.
“Oh, gods,” he said. “Jaime, I am so sorry, but . . . gods be good, look at the two of us. Handless and Noseless the Lannister boys.”
“There were days when my hand smelled so bad I wished I was noseless.”
Lord Tywin Lannister did not, in the end, shit gold.
“We’ll defend the Wall to the last man,” said Cotter Pyke.
“Probably me,” said Dolorous Edd, in a resigned tone.
A toad grows wings and thinks he's a bloody dragon.
You can’t be the Lord of Winterfell, you’re bastard-born.
“Gods be good, our Lord Commander’s still in swaddling clothes.”
Iron Emmett said, “I hope this don’t mean I can’t beat the bloody piss out of you next time we train, my lord.”
“Lord Snow,” said Cotter Pyke, “if you muck this up, I’m going to rip your liver out and eat it raw with onions.”