Rr We Re Quotes

You're mine," she whispered. "Mine, as I'm yours. And if we die, we die. All men must die, Jon Snow. But first, we'll live.

We're children. We're supposed to be childish.

We're all just songs in the end. If we are lucky.

When they finally broke apart, Ygritte was flushed. "You're mine," she whispered. "Mine, as I'm yours. And if we die, we die. All men must die, Jon Snow. But first we'll live.

Nobody is a villain in their own story. We're all the heroes of our own stories.

Jon Snow, is this a proper castle now? Not just a tower?” “It is.” Jon took her hand. “Good,” she whispered. “I wanted t’ see one proper castle, before … before I …” “You’ll see hundred castles. The battle’s done. Maester Aemon will see to you. You’re kissed by fire, remember? Lucky. It will take more than an arrow to kill you. Aemon will draw it out and patch you up, and we’ll get milk of the poppy for the pain.” She just smiled at that. “D’you remember that cave? We should have stayed in that cave. I told you so.” “We’ll go back to the cave,” he said.” You’re not going to die, Ygritte. You’re not.” “Oh.” Ygritte cupped his cheek with her hand. “You know nothing, Jon Snow,” she sighed, dying.

The Red God takes what is his, lovely girl. And only death may pay for life. You saved me and the two I was with. You stole three deaths from the Red God. We have to give them back. Speak three names and the man will do the rest. Three lives I will give you - no more, no less, and we're done.

Nobody likes cravens,” he said uncomfortably. “I wish we hadn’t helped him. What if they think we’re craven too?” "You're too stupid to be craven,” Pyp told him. “I am not,” Grenn said. “Yes you are. If a bear attacked you in the woods, you’d be too stupid to run away.” “I would not,” Grenn insisted. “I’d run away faster than you.” He stopped suddenly, scowling when he saw Pyp’s grin and realized what he’d just said.

Mother said," mocked the king. "Don't be childish." "We're children," Myrcella declared haughtily. "We're supposed to be childish." The Hound laughed. "She has you there.

You don't just have people who wake up in the morning and say, "What evil things can I do today, because I'm Mr. Evil?" People do things for what they think are justified reasons. Everybody is the hero of their own story, and you have to keep that in mind. If you read a lot of history, as I do, even the worst and most monstrous people thought they were the good guys. We're all very tangled knots.

We're fortunate my brother Stannis is not with us. Remember that time he proposed to outlaw brothels?

a few days ago she had been wandering around with a swatch of black silk tied over her eyes. Syrio was teaching her to see with her ears and her nose and her skin, she told him. Before that, he had her doing spinds and back flips. "Arya, are you certain you want to persist in this?" She nodded. "Tomorrow we're going to catch cats." "Cats." Ned sighed.

Who are you? We we're king's men when we began, the man told her, but king's men must have a king, and we have none. We were brothers too, but now our brotherhood is broken. I do not know who we are, if truth be told, nor where we might be going. I only know the road is dark. The fires have not shown me what lies at its end.

I am sorry for your girl, Ned. Truly. About the wolf, I mean. My son was lying, I’d stake my soul on it. My son … you love your children, don’t you?” “With all my heart,” Ned said. “Let me tell you a secret, Ned. More than once, I have dreamed of giving up the crown. Take ship for the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer, spend my time warring and whoring, that’s what I was made for. The sellsword king, how the singers would love me. You know what stops me? The thought of Joffrey on the throne, with Cersei standing behind him whispering in his ear. My son. How could I have made a son like that, Ned?” “He’s only a boy,” Ned said awkwardly. He had small liking for Prince Joffrey, but he could hear the pain in Robert’s voice. “Have you forgotten how wild you were at his age?” “It would not trouble me if the boy was wild, Ned. You don’t know him as I do.” He sighed and shook his head. “Ah, perhaps you are right. Jon despaired of me often enough, yet I grew into a good king.” Robert looked at Ned and scowled at his silence. “You might speak up and agree now, you know.” “Your Grace …” Ned began, carefully. Robert slapped Ned on the back. “Ah, say that I’m a better king than Aerys and be done with it. You never could lie for love nor honor, Ned Stark. I’m still young, and now that you’re here with me, things will be different. We’ll make this a reign to sing of, and damn the Lannisters to seven hells.

should be enough,” said Robb. “You will have command of my rear guard, Lord Bolton. I mean to start for the Neck as soon as my uncle has been wedded and bedded. We’re going home.

I remember a man throwing me in the air when I was very little. He stands as tall as the sky, and he throws me up so high it feels as though I'm flying. We're both laughing, laughing so much that I could hardly catch a breath, and finally I laugh so hard I wet myself, but that only makes him laugh the louder. I was never afraid when he was throwing me. I knew that he would always be there to catch me.

Fat and awkward and frightened he might be, but Samwell Tarly was no fool. One night he visited Jon in his cell. “I don’t know what you did,” he said, “but I know you did it.” He looked away shyly. “I’ve never had a friend before.” “We’re not friends,” Jon said. He put a hand on Sam’s broad shoulder. “We’re brothers.

Black Wind was Asha’s longship. He had not seen his sister in ten years, but that much he knew of her. Odd that she would call it that, when Robb Stark had a wolf named Grey Wind. “Stark is grey and Greyjoy’s black,” he murmured, smiling, “but it seems we’re both windy.

Some mate," Karl Framm said with contempt. "Hell, that little stern-wheeler we're chasin' don't draw nothin'. After a good rain, she could steam halfway across the city of N'Orleans without ever noticin' that she'd left the river.

We’ll go back to the cave,” he said. “You’re not going to die, Ygritte. You’re not.” “Oh.” Ygritte cupped his cheek with her hand. “You know nothing, Jon Snow,” she sighed, dying.

We’re all scared. We’d be fools if we weren’t.

Sweet one,” her father said gently, “listen to me. When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who’s worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me.” “He is!” Sansa insisted. “I don’t want someone brave and gentle, I want him. We’ll be ever so happy, just like in the songs, you’ll see.

In the black hour before dawn, they stopped to let the horses drink and fed them each a handful of oats and a twist or two of hay. "We are not far from the place the wildlings died," said Qhorin. "From there, one man could hold a hundred. The right man." He looked at Squire Dalbridge. The squire bowed his head. "Leave me as many arrows as you can spare, brothers." He stroked his longbow. "And see my garron has an apple when you're home. He's earned it, poor beastie." He's staying to die, Jon realized. Qhorin clasped the squire's forearm with a gloved hand. "If the eagle flies down for a look at you..." "...he'll sprout some new feathers.

The stable ground is disappearing. You’re either going up or going down. The upshot is widespread unhappiness. Even the successful are consumed by a spirit of anxious striving. Too often despair overtakes those struggling, stumbling, and falling behind. We

Oh, Robb, I love you too. You know that. I try to share with you. I want to share what I read, what it was like. But I can't. We're cut off. I can't make you understand. I'm here and you're there and we can touch and make love and talk, but we're still apart. You see? You see? I'm alone.

-You think the Shkeen have found the answer to the mysteries of creation. But look at them....they've been stuck in the Bronze Age for fourteen thousand years... Where are their spaceships? Where are their towers? -Where are our bells?...And our joy? They're happy, Dino. Are we? Maybe they've found what we're still looking for. Why the hell is man so driven, anyway? Why is he out to conquer the galaxy, the universe, whatever? Looking for God, maybe…? Maybe. He can't find him anywhere, though, so on he goes, on and on, always looking. But always back to the same darkling plain in the end.

That night, after the lates had been cleared, Robb carried Bran up to bed himself. Grey Wind led the way, and Summer came close behind. His brother was strong for his age, and Bran was as light as a bundle of rags, but the stairs were steep and dark, and Robb was breathing hard by the time they reached the top. He put Bran into bed, covered him with blankets, and blew out the candle. For a time Robb sat beside him in the dark. Bran wanted to talk to him, but he did not know what to say. "We'll find a horse for you, I promise," Robb whispered at last. "Are they ever coming back?" Bran asked him. "Yes," Robb said with such hope in his voice that Bran knew he was hearing his brother and not just Robb the Lord. "Mother will be home soon. Maybe we can ride out to meet her when she comes. Wouldn't that surprise her, to see you ahorse?" Even in the dark room, Bran could feel his brother's smile. "And afterward, we'll ride north to see the Wall. We won't even tell Jon we're coming, we'll just be there one day, you and me. It will be an adventure." "An adventure," Bran repeated wistfully. He heard his brother sob. The room was so dark he could not see the tears on Robb's face, so he reached out and found his hand. Their fingers twined together.

and Bran was suddenly afraid. Old sour-smelling Yoren looked up at Robb, unimpressed. “Whatever you say, m’lord,” he said. He sucked at a piece of meat between his teeth. The youngest of the black brothers shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “There’s not a man on the Wall knows the haunted forest better than Benjen Stark. He’ll find his way back.” “Well,” said Yoren, “maybe he will and maybe he won’t. Good men have gone into those woods before, and never come out.” All Bran could think of was Old Nan’s story of the Others and the last hero, hounded through the white woods by dead men and spiders big as hounds. He was afraid for a moment, until he remembered how that story ended. “The children will help him,” he blurted, “the children of the forest!” Theon Greyjoy sniggered, and Maester Luwin said, “Bran, the children of the forest have been dead and gone for thousands of years. All that is left of them are the faces in the trees.” “Down here, might be that’s true, Maester,” Yoren said, “but up past the Wall, who’s to say? Up there, a man can’t always tell what’s alive and what’s dead.” That night, after the plates had been cleared, Robb carried Bran up to bed himself. Grey Wind led the way, and Summer came close behind. His brother was strong for his age, and Bran was as light as a bundle of rags, but the stairs were steep and dark, and Robb was breathing hard by the time they reached the top. He put Bran into bed, covered him with blankets, and blew out the candle. For a time Robb sat beside him in the dark. Bran wanted to talk to him, but he did not know what to say. “We’ll find a horse for you, I promise,” Robb whispered at last. “Are they ever coming back?” Bran asked him. “Yes,” Robb said with such hope in his voice that Bran knew he was hearing his brother and not just Robb the Lord. “Mother will be home soon. Maybe we can ride out to meet her when she comes. Wouldn’t that surprise her, to see you ahorse?” Even in the dark room, Bran could feel his brother’s smile. “And afterward, we’ll ride north to see the Wall. We won’t even tell Jon we’re coming, we’ll just be there one day, you and me. It will be an adventure.” “An adventure,” Bran repeated wistfully. He heard his brother sob. The room was so dark he could not see the tears on Robb’s face, so he reached out and found his hand. Their fingers twined together. EDDARD “Lord Arryn’s death was a great sadness for all of us, my lord,” Grand Maester Pycelle said.

We're standing at the bar in Club Myst, one of the trendiest nightclubs in Las Vegas. The music is loud, and people are grinding, bodies close together, on the dance floor. The lighting inside the club is dim, and everything is done in dark woods and a dark color scheme. The ceiling is dotted with lights that are, I’m guessing, supposed to look like stars, and the ground is covered in a foot-deep mist that's lit a deep green from underneath, giving the room a strange, mystical glow.

We're sitting at a booth in the lounge again and the awkwardness between us is palpable. It took two drinks for us to be able to look at each other again without blushing. Three before we spoke. And now, on our fourth drink since our session in the theater, all we can do is look at one another and giggle like a couple of horny teenagers who'd just avoided being caught fucking in a parent's basement.

honest. Gabby is an amazing woman –but one who, because she's so beautiful and feminine, men constantly underestimate. We're enjoying a lazy

My best friend looks at me and downs the shot of bourbon in his glass. His eyes are red and rheumy, a look of misery etched upon his face. Trey sniffs loudly and slams his glass down on the bar, drawing the attention of a few of the people sitting around us. “I loved her, man,”he says. I nod and pat him on the shoulder. “I know you did, man.”We're sitting at the bar in the Yellow Rose Lounge, a quiet place where people can go to have a drink and conversation. Furnished in dark woods, with soft, dim lighting, it's more peaceful than your average watering hole. The music is kept low enough that you don't have to shout to be heard, and the flat panel televisions showing highlights from various games are kept on mute. The Yellow Rose is a lounge that caters to business professionals and people who want to have a quiet drink, a mellow conversation, or be alone with their thoughts. There are plenty of bars in Austin that cater to the hellraisers and I've been known to patronize those places now and then. But, it's also nice to have a place like the Yellow Rose for times when I need some quiet solitude. Or, when I need help nursing a friend through a bad, bitter breakup. The bartender pours Trey another shot –which he immediately downs. “Might as well leave the bottle,”I say. The bartender pauses and gives me a considering look, knowing he shouldn't leave a bottle with customers. I think it's a law or something. Reaching into my pocket, I drop a couple of hundreds down on the bar, which seems to relieve him of his inner-conflict. He quickly scoops up the cash, sets the bottle down, and strolls down to the other end of the bar. I pour Trey another shot, which he downs almost instantly and then holds his glass up for another. Not wanting to see him pass out or die from alcohol poisoning, I know I need to pace him. I set the bottle back down on the bar in front of me and turn to my friend.

My best friend looks at me and downs the shot of bourbon in his glass. His eyes are red and rheumy, a look of misery etched upon his face. Trey sniffs loudly and slams his glass down on the bar, drawing the attention of a few of the people sitting around us. “I loved her, man,” he says. I nod and pat him on the shoulder. “I know you did, man.” We're sitting at the bar in the Yellow Rose Lounge , a quiet place where people can go to have a drink and conversation. Furnished in dark woods, with soft, dim lighting, it's more peaceful than your average watering hole. The music is kept low enough that you don't have to shout to be heard, and the flat panel televisions showing highlights from various games are kept on mute. The Yellow Rose is a lounge that caters to business professionals and people who want to have a quiet drink, a mellow conversation, or be alone with their thoughts. There are plenty of bars in Austin that cater to the hellraisers and I've been known to patronize those places now and then. But, it's also nice to have a place like the Yellow Rose for times when I need some quiet solitude. Or, when I need help nursing a friend through a bad, bitter breakup. The bartender pours Trey another shot –which he immediately downs. “Might as well leave the bottle,” I say. The bartender pauses and gives me a considering look, knowing he shouldn't leave a bottle with customers. I think it's a law or something. Reaching into my pocket, I drop a couple of hundreds down on the bar, which seems to relieve him of his inner-conflict. He quickly scoops up the cash, sets the bottle down, and strolls down to the other end of the bar. I pour Trey another shot, which he downs almost instantly and then holds his glass up for another. Not wanting to see him pass out or die from alcohol poisoning, I know I need to pace him. I set the bottle back down on the bar in front of me and turn to my friend.

I know you can't see it now, but this is a good thing, man,” I say. “You have your freedom back. You're young, good looking, have a great job – just think about how much pussy you're going to get.” “I don't want pussy,” he moans. “I want Stephanie back.” I groan inwardly. Stephanie is a terrible human being. I haven't liked her since they first started dating back when we were all going to Stanford together. She was always too pretentious and condescending for my liking. Always looked down on people and seemed to think that she was better than everyone else. No, Stephanie and I never got on well at all. I know that it’s always bugged Trey, but some people just don't click. I never went out of my way to be an asshole to her – at least, not usually. But, I was never overly-friendly to her either. I have a hard time making nice with somebody I despise. Truthfully, I want to do fucking cartwheels and throw a party now that she's out of Trey's life. I genuinely think he'll be better off without her. And that he'll find a much better woman. I pour out another shot – a smaller amount this time – and Trey pounds it down, slamming his shot glass onto the bar again. “I really thought she was the one, man,” he says, sniffing loudly. “Yeah, well, I don't want to be an asshole,” I say, “but you usually aren't going to find the ‘one’ down on her knees sucking some other guy off in your house.” I feel bad for slapping Trey with such a hard dose of reality, but he needs it. Stephanie is about as close to the one for him as I am. I tried telling him that back in college. I've always suspected she had a side piece, but I couldn't ever prove it. And mentioning it to Trey was as useful as talking to a brick wall about it. All he ever saw in Stephanie was the good. Or at least, what he perceived to be good. But really, there is

We're standing at the bar in Club Myst, one of the trendiest nightclubs in Las Vegas. The music is loud, and people are grinding, bodies close together, on the dance floor. The lighting inside the club is dim, and everything is done in dark woods and a dark color scheme. The ceiling is dotted with lights that are, I’m guessing, supposed to look like stars, and the ground is covered in a foot- deep mist that's lit a deep green from underneath, giving the room a strange, mystical glow.

The Rio entrance, the casino, the throng of people –everything is a blur. Freshly showered, wearing clean clothes, and with some food in my belly –at Trey's insistence –I am starting to sober up. Finally. Which is a good thing, given that I need to have my mind clear and my wits about me, since I'm here to discuss our marriage and what the hell we're going to do about it.

Look, man,” I say, “in the long run, you're going to be better off. She wasn't good for you, Trey.” My best friend looks at me and downs the shot of bourbon in his glass. His eyes are red and rheumy, a look of misery etched upon his face. Trey sniffs loudly and slams his glass down on the bar, drawing the attention of a few of the people sitting around us. “I loved her, man,” he says. I nod and pat him on the shoulder. “I know you did, man.” We're sitting at the bar in the Yellow Rose Lounge, a quiet place where people can go to have a drink and conversation. Furnished in dark woods, with soft, dim lighting, it's more peaceful than your average watering hole. The music is kept low enough that you don't have to shout to be heard, and the flat panel televisions showing highlights from various games are kept on mute. The Yellow Rose is a lounge that caters to business professionals and people who want to have a quiet drink, a mellow conversation, or be alone with their thoughts. There are plenty of bars in Austin that cater

wanted to know why I do this, how I do this. About always feeling outmatched and outclassed. Well, I am. We are. In this life you always are, but so what? Against the supernatural, you’re always fighting out of your weight class. What matters is that you fight, because what else is there to do?

I think I will try to sleep. Wake me if we’re about to die.” He

We’re all just songs in the end. If we are lucky.

A book is a gift you can open again and again." – Garrison Kellor "Some books leave us free and some books make us free." – Ralph Waldo Emerson "Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers." – Charles W. Eliot "A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counselor, a multitude of counselors." – Charles Baudelaire "There are some books that reached through the noise of life to grab you by the collar and speak only of the truest things." – Jeffrey Eugenides, The Marriage Plot "Books are mirrors: You only see in them what you already have inside you." – Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind "Reading was my escape and my comfort, my consolation, my stimulant of choice: reading for the pure pleasure of it, for the beautiful stillness that surrounds you when you hear an author's words reverberating in your head." – Paul Auster, The Brooklyn Follies "A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies... The man who never reads lives only one." – George R.R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons "Reading is an active, imaginative act; it takes work." – Khaled Hosseini "Reading is an exercise in empathy; an exercise in walking in someone else’s shoes for a while." – Malorie Blackman "That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong." – F. Scott Fitzgerald "Once you learn to read, you will be forever free." – Frederick Douglass "Reading makes immigrants of us all. It takes us away from home, but more important, it finds homes for us everywhere." – Jean Rhys "We tell ourselves stories in order to live." – Joan Didion, The White Album

The Lord Commander had given him his orders when they made their camp on the Fist. “You’re no fighter. We both know that, boy. If it happens that we’re attacked, don’t go trying to prove otherwise, you’ll just get in the way. You’re to send a message. And don’t come running to ask what the letter should say. Write it out yourself, and send one bird to Castle Black and another to the Shadow Tower.” The Old Bear pointed a gloved finger right in Sam’s face. “I don’t care if you’re so scared you foul your breeches, and I don’t care if a thousand wildlings are coming over the walls howling for your blood, you get those birds off, or I swear I’ll hunt you through all seven hells and make you damn sorry that you didn’t.” And Mormont’s own raven had bobbed its head up and down and croaked, “Sorry, sorry, sorry.

When we can’t imagine alternatives, most of us remain loyal to the ideas that dominate our minds, even when we know they’re false. We can change our minds only when we are able to envision a more powerful truth.

Friedrich Hayek wrote his classic The Road to Serfdom during World War II in the hope of shaping the postwar reconstruction of society. The West, he believed, faced a decisive choice: to affirm individual freedom or to embrace central planning and socialism. Today, however, our greatest threat is untethered individualism. We’re living in a dissolving society, not a collectivist one. In

I think I will try and sleep. Wake me if we’re about to die.

But there’s a dark side to our national character. A deep sadness comes when we realize, finally, that we’re on our own, which is where secular individualism brings us in the end.

nobody is a villain in there own story. we're all the heroes of our own stories.

Grey characters have always interested me the most and I think the world is full of them. I read a lot of history, and I don't see any purely heroic characters or purely evil characters. You could pick the most extreme examples — Hitler famously loved dogs. Stalin, Mao, Genghis Khan; the great mass murderers of history were all heroic in their mind's eye. Conversely you can read stories about all the saints from Catholic history and Mother Theresa or Ghandi and you can find things about them that were flawed or questionable actions that they undertook. We're all grey and I think we all have the capacity in us to do heroic things and very selfish things. I think understanding that is how you create characters that really have some depth to them. Even when I'm writing someone like Theon Greyjoy, who many people hate, I have to try and see the world through his eyes and make sense of what he does.

But friendship isn't one of life's little luxuries. It's a necessity. To go through the world without the closest of friends is like walking it with a missing leg, with no crutch to be found when you need that support. Friends are the breath left to us when we run out of our own. They're the mirrors we need when we cannot see ourselves clearly. They point out our little flaws and, in times, the larger ones we must tend to. And, of course, they help us out of trouble as much as they help us into it. They are the truest form of reciprocation. You may think me callow for describing friendship in this way. That I demean friendship--make it seem like an exchange. But you are wrong. Friends are the ones willing and most able to give anything--everything when they can. And you do the same. It is never said. But it is the unspoken agreement in friendship. A reciprocation of feelings--actions. Of time. Which, I have learned over the course of my life, is an alternate way of spelling the word "love." People want time given to them--for them. For it's a kind of love the world is in all too short supply of. And for that, they will love you back. That is friendship.

When he was gone, Grenn frowned. “Nobody likes cravens,” he said uncomfortably. “I wish we hadn’t helped him. What if they think we’re craven too?” “You’re too stupid to be craven,” Pyp told him.

when Robb Stark had a wolf named Grey Wind. “Stark is grey and Greyjoy’s black,” he murmured, smiling, “but it seems we’re both windy.

It’s hard to know what to even dream of and hope for when the life you live is one you’ve been handed by others. Some people are molded too early in life and they never get a chance to become the person they could have been. They never know them. And we’re all the poorer for it. The world certainly is.

You're kissed by fire, remember? Lucky. It will take more than an arrow to kill you...' She just smiled at that. 'D'you remember that cave? We should have stayed in that cave. I told you so.' 'We'll go back to that cave,' he said. "You're not going to die, Ygritte. You're not.' 'Oh.' Ygritte cupped his cheek with her hand. 'You know nothing, Jon Snow,' she sighed, dying.

He grabbed the saw that was hanging on the top shelf and put his foot on the chain, pulling it tight. Ryder closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing as she started singing in the tune of N’Sync’s Tearing Up My Heart. “You’re not tearing up the chain, you know it’s true, We’re stuck together for-ever, me and you And no matter what you do, I’ll be right her-rr-e To a-no-hoy you.” Ryder had a crazed look on his face as he gritted his teeth and tried to saw the unsawable chain.

Lie with me here a moment and look at the sky. When we’re apart and missing one another, we can look at the sky and remember that the same sun shines on us both.

We’re together now, we’re together after so long, so very long, why would you want to kiss herrrrrr?” “Lysa,” Petyr sighed, “after all the storms we’ve suffered, you should trust me better. I swear, I shall never leave your side again, for as long as we both shall live.

We're sitting at the bar in the Yellow Rose Lounge, a quiet place where people can go to have a drink and conversation. Furnished in dark woods, with soft, dim lighting, it's more peaceful than your average watering

My best friend looks at me and downs the shot of bourbon in his glass. His eyes are red and rheumy, a look of misery etched upon his face. Trey sniffs loudly and slams his glass down on the bar, drawing the attention of a few of the people sitting around us. “I loved her, man,” he says. I nod and pat him on the shoulder. “I know you did, man.” We're sitting at the bar in the Yellow Rose Lounge, a quiet place where people can go to have a drink and conversation. Furnished in dark woods, with soft, dim lighting, it's more peaceful than your average watering hole. The music is kept low enough that you don't have to shout to be heard, and the flat panel televisions showing highlights from various games are kept on mute. The Yellow Rose is a lounge that caters to business professionals and people who want to have a quiet drink, a mellow conversation, or be alone with their thoughts. There are plenty of bars in Austin that cater to the hellraisers and I've been known to patronize those places now and then. But, it's also nice to have a place like the Yellow Rose for times when I need some quiet solitude. Or, when I need help nursing a friend through a bad, bitter breakup. The bartender pours Trey another shot – which he immediately downs. “Might as well leave the bottle,” I say. The bartender pauses and gives me a considering look, knowing he shouldn't leave a bottle with customers. I think it's a law or something. Reaching into my pocket, I drop a couple of hundreds down on the bar, which seems to relieve him of his inner-conflict. He quickly scoops up the cash, sets the bottle down, and strolls down to the other end of the bar. I pour Trey another shot, which he downs almost instantly and then holds his glass up for another. Not wanting to see him pass out or die from alcohol poisoning, I know I need to pace him. I set the bottle back down on the bar in front of me and turn to my friend

We're all only human, and we do the best we can with the hand that fate has dealt us.

Dammit, Lya, think! Remember all we've had, all we've shared together. That's love, Lya. It is. We're the lucky ones, remember? You said that yourself. The Normals have only a touch and a voice, then back to their darkness. They can barely find each other. They're alone. Always. Groping. Trying, over and over, to climb out of their isolation booths, and failing, over and over. But not us, we found the way, we know each other as much as any human beings ever can. There's nothing I wouldn't tell you, or share with you. I've said that before, and you know it's true, you can read it in me. That's love, dammit. Isn't it?

Lord Bolton’s little smile paid another visit to his lips. “You speak boldly for a man who needs help to break his bread. My guards are all around us, I remind you.” “All around us, and half a league away.” Jaime glanced down the vast length of the hall. “By the time they reach us, you’ll be as dead as Aerys.” “ ’Tis scarcely chivalrous to threaten your host over his own cheese and olives,” the Lord of the Dreadfort scolded. “In the north, we hold the laws of hospitality sacred still.” “I’m a captive here, not a guest. Your goat cut off my hand. If you think some prunes will make me overlook that, you’re bloody well mistaken.” That took Roose Bolton aback. “Perhaps I am. Perhaps I ought to make a wedding gift of you to Edmure Tully … or strike your head off, as your sister did for Eddard Stark.

Yet he saw no familiar faces, no honor guard waiting to escort him from Lordsport to Pyke, only smallfolk going about their small business. Shorehands rolled casks of wine off the Tyroshi trader, fisherfolk cried the day’s catch, children ran and played. A priest in the seawater robes of the Drowned God was leading a pair of horses along the pebbled shore, while above him a slattern leaned out a window in the inn, calling out to some passing Ibbenese sailors. A handful of Lordsport merchants had gathered to meet the ship. They shouted questions as the Myraham was tying up. “We’re out of Oldtown,” the captain called down, “bearing apples and oranges, wines from the Arbor, feathers from the Summer Isles. I have pepper, woven leathers, a bolt of Myrish lace, mirrors for milady, a pair of Oldtown woodharps sweet as any you ever heard.” The gangplank descended with a creak and a thud. “And I’ve brought your heir back to you.

We're lucky, you know. The Normals have only words. Poor little Normals. How can they tell, with just words? How can they know? They're always apart from each other, trying to reach each other and failing. Even when they make love, even when they come, they're always apart. They must be very lonely.

Man invents gods because he's afraid of being alone, scared of an empty universe, scared of the darkling plain... They've found God, or as much of a God as they're ever likely to find....Maybe it didn't create the universe, but it's love, pure love, and they say that God is love, don't they? Or maybe what we call love is a tiny piece of God. I don't care, whatever it is, the Union is it. The end of the search...

Sam's no different from the rest of us. There was no place for him in this world, so he's come here. We're not gonna hurt him in the training yard anymore. Never again, no matter what Throne says. He's our brother now, and we're going to protect him.

Sam's no different from the rest of us. There was no place for him in this world, so he's come here. We're not gonna hurt him in the training yard anymore. Never again, no matter what Throne says. He's our brother now, and we're going to protect him." Jon Snow