Sansa Quotes

My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.

There are no heroes...in life, the monsters win.

Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow's smile. He used to mess my hair and call me "little sister," she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey. (Sansa) No doubt. As loyal as a deer surrounded by wolves. (Tyrion) Lions, she whispered without thinking.

They are children, Sansa thought. They are silly little girls, even Elinor. They’ve never seen a battle, they’ve never seen a man die, they know nothing. Their dreams were full of songs and stories, the way hers had been before Joffrey cut her fathers head off. Sansa pitied them. Sansa envied them.

Always keep your foes confused. If they are never certain who you are or what you want, they cannot know what you are like to do next. Sometimes the best way to baffle them is to make moves that have no purpose, or even seem to work against you. Remember that, Sansa, when you come to play the game.” “What . . . what game?” “The only game. The game of thrones.

Once she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted her his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father's head. Sansa would never make that mistake again.

True knights protect the weak.” He snorted. “There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don’t ever believe any different.” Sansa backed away from him. “You’re awful.” “I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful.

I will remember, Your Grace," said Sansa, though she had always heard that love was a surer route to the people's loyalty than fear. If I am ever a queen, I'll make them love me.

It's just a stupid sword," she said, aloud this time... ... but it wasn't. Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow's smile.

I love the juice but I loathe sticky fingers. Clean hands, Sansa. Whatever you do, make certain your hands are clean.

It hurts so much, she thought. Our children, Ned, all our sweet babes. Rickon, Bran, Arya, Sansa, Robb… Robb… please, Ned, please, make it stop, make it stop hurting… The white tears and the red ones ran together until her face was torn and tattered, the face that Ned had loved. Catelyn Stark raised her hands and watched the blood run down her long fingers, over her wrists, beneath the sleeves of her gown. Slow red worms crawled along her arms and under her clothes. It tickles. That made her laugh until she screamed. “Mad,” someone said, “she’s lost her wits,” and someone else said, “Make an end,” and a hand grabbed her scalp just as she’d done with Jinglebell, and she thought, No, don’t, don’t cut my hair, Ned loves my hair. Then the steel was at her throat, and its bite was red and cold.— Catelyn Stark

Jaime had decided that he would return Sansa, and the younger girl as well if she could be found. It was not like to win him back his honor, but the notion of keeping faith when they all expected betrayal amused him more than he could say.

Go Ahead, call me all the names you want," Sansa said airily. "You won't dare when I'm married to Joffrey. You'll have to bow and call me Your Grace." She shrieked as Arya flung the orange across the table. It caught her in the middle of the forehead with a wet squish and plopped down into her lap. "You have juice on your face, Your Grace ," Arya said.

The snow drifted down and down, all in ghostly silence, and lay thick and unbroken on the ground. It was a place of whites and blacks and greys. White towers and white snow and white statues, black shadows and black trees, the dark grey sky above. A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here. Yet she stepped out all the same.

Robert wanted to be loved. My brother Tyrion has the same disease. Do you want to be loved, Sansa?” “Everyone wants to be loved.” “I see flowering hasn’t made you any brighter,” said Cersei. “Sansa, permit me to share a bit of womanly wisdom with you on this very special day. Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.

He is no true knight, but he saved me all the same,” she told the mother. “Save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him -Sansa

cand simti ca s-a terminat,nu accepta virgula.Pune punct si da-ti alta sansa.

We were talking about the prince,' Sansa said, her voice soft as a kiss. Arya knew which prince she meant: Joffrey, of course. The tall, handsome one. Sansa got to sit with him at the feast. Arya had to sit with the little fat one. Naturally.

When you smell our candles burning, what does it make you think of, my child?" Winterfell, she might have said. I smell snow and smoke and pine needles. I smell the stables. I smell Hodor laughing, and Jon and Robb battling in the yard, and Sansa singing about some stupid lady fair. I smell the crypts where the stone kings sit. I smell hot bread baking. I smell the godswood. I smell my wolf. I smell her fur, almost as if she were still beside me. "I don't smell anything," she said.

He pushed himself to his feet. “Don’t lie, Sansa. I am malformed, scarred, and small, but…” she could see him groping “…abed, when the candles are blown out, I am made no worse than other men. In the dark, I am the Knight of Flowers.” He took a draught of wine. “I am generous. Loyal to those who are loyal to me. I’ve proven I’m no craven. And I am cleverer than most, surely wits count for something. I can even be kind. Kindness is not a habit with us Lannisters, I fear, but I know I have some somewhere. I could be… I could be good to you.

The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leathery wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window.

She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. From Winterfell, she thought. I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell.

Is it all lies, forever and ever, everyone and everything?" - Sansa

Tears, she said scornfully to Sansa as the woman was led from the hall. The woman's weapon, my lady mother used to call them. The man's weapon is a sword. And that tells us all you need to know, doesn't it?

If I could wish the Kingslayer back in chains I would. You freed him without my knowledge or consent... but what you did, I know you did for love. For Arya and Sansa, and out of grief for Bran and Rickon. Love’s not always wise, I’ve learned. It can lead us to great folly, but we follow our hearts... wherever they take us. Don’t we, Mother?

His dagger was out, poised at her throat. “Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life.

Let his sword break and his shield shatter, Sansa thought coldly as she shoved out through the doors, let his courage fail him and every man desert him.

You look pale, Sansa," Cersei observed. "Is your red flower still blooming?" "Yes" "How apt. The men will bleed out there, and you in here.

The gods heard my prayer, she thought. She felt so numb and dreamy. My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.

After my name day feast, I’m going to raise a host and kill your brother myself. That’s what I’ll give you, Lady Sansa. Your brother’s head.” A kind of madness took over her then, and she heard herself say, “Maybe my brother will give me your head.

Thank you for your many lessons Lord Baelish. I will never forget them.

Who are you?” he would ask her every day. “No one,” she would answer, she who had been Arya of House Stark, Arya Underfoot, Arya Horseface. She had been Arry and Weasel too, and Squab and Salty, Nan the cupbearer, a grey mouse, a sheep, the ghost of Harrenhal…but not for true, not in her heart of hearts. In there she was Arya of Winterfell, the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn, who had once had brothers named Robb and Bran and Rickon, a sister named Sansa, a direwolf called Nymeria, a half brother named Jon Snow. In there she was someone…but that was not the answer he wanted.

Your brother Jaime keeps losing battles. He gave Sansa an angry look, as if it were her fault. He’s been taken by the Starks and we’ve lost Riverrun and now her stupid brother is calling himself a king. The dwarf smiled crookedly. “All sorts of people are calling themselves kings these days.

Perhaps I will die too, she told herself, and the thought did not seem so terrible to her. If she flung herself from the window, she could put an end to her suffering, and in the years to come the singers would write songs of her grief. Her body would lie on the stones below, broken and innocent, shaming all those who had betrayed her. Sansa went so far as to cross the bedchamber and throw open the shutters ... but then her courage left her, and she ran back to her bed, sobbing.

As she slept amidst the rolling grasslands, Catelyn dreamt that Bran was shole again, that Arya and Sansa held hands, that Rickon was still a babe at her breast. Robb, crownless, played with a wooden sword, and when all were safe asleep, she found Ned in her bed, smiling. Sweet it was, sweet and gone too soon. Dawn came cruel, a dagger of light. She woke aching and alone and weary; weary of riding, weary of hurting, weary of duty. I want to weep, she thought, I want to be comforted. I'm so tired of being strong. I want to be foolish and frightened for once. Just for a small while, that's all . . . a day . . . an hour . . .

The septons preach about the seven hells. What do they know? Only a man who's been burned knows what hell is truly like" ...She was sad for him, she realized. Somehow, the fear had gone away. The silence went on and on, so long that she began to grow afraid once more, but she was afraid for him now, not for herself. She found his massive shoulder with her hand. "He was no true knight," she whispered to him.

A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here. Yet she stepped out all the same.

I do solemnly proclaim Tyrion of House Lannister and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.

Do as you're told, sweetling, it won't be so bad. Wolves are supposed to be brave, aren't they?

I have made kings and unmade them. Sansa Stark is my last chance for honor.

A lady's armor is courtesy.

Sometimes the best way to baffle them is to make moves that have no purpose, or even seem to work against you. Remember that, Sansa, when you come to play the game.” “What … what game?” “The only game. The game of thrones.

I was very sorry to hear about your losses. Your brother was a terrible traitor, I know, but if we start killing men at weddings they'll be more frightened of marriage than they are presently. (Olenna Tyrell to Sansa Stark

That's pretty." He remembered Sansa telling him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name.

Sansa cried herself to sleep, Arya brooded silently all day long, and Eddard Stark dreamed of a frozen hell reserved for the Starks of Winterfell.

¿En qué piensas cuando hueles nuestras velas, mi niña? «En Invernalia —le podría haber respondido—. Huelen a nieve, a humo y a agujas de pino. Huelen a los establos. Huelen a las risas de Hodor, y a Jon y a Robb entrenándose juntos en el patio, y a Sansa cantando alguna canción idiota sobre alguna bella dama. Huelen a las criptas donde están sentados los reyes de piedra; huelen a pan caliente en el horno; huelen al bosque de dioses. Huelen a mi loba y huelen a su pelaje; es casi como si la tuviera al lado.»

Dragostea este cea mai frumoasă dintre șanse.

My father was a traitor,” Sansa said at once. “And my brother and lady mother are traitors as well.” That reflex she had learned quickly. “I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey.” “No doubt. As loyal as a deer surrounded by wolves.” “Lions,” she whispered, without thinking. She glanced about nervously, but there was no one close enough to hear.

Catelyn dreamt that Bran was whole again, that Arya and Sansa held hands, that Rickon was still a babe at her breast. Robb, crownless, played with a wooden sword, and when all were safe asleep, she found Ned in her bed, smiling

She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. 'From Winterfell,' she thought. 'I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell.

Sure, the idea of having some of those devices used on me elicits an acute fear of pain and desperate, futile struggles — but even that fear is flavored by arousal.

You must miss your father terribly, I know. Lord Eddard was a brave man, honest and loyal...but quite a hopeless player.' He brought the seed to his mouth with the knife. 'In King's Landing, there are two sorts of people The players and the pieces.' 'And I was a piece?' She dreaded the answer. 'Yes, but don't let that trouble you. You're still half a child. Every man's a piece to start with, and every maid as well. Even some who think they are players.' He at another seed. 'Cersei, for one. She thinks herself sly, but in truth she is utterly predictable. her strength rests on her beauty, birth, and riches. Only the first of those is truly her own, and it will soon desert her. I pity her then. She wants power, but has no notion what to do with it when she gets it. Everyone wants something, Alayne. And when you know what a man wants you know who he is, and how to move him.

Let me tell you something about wolves, child. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. So if you must hate, Arya, hate those who would truly do us harm. Septa Mordane is a good woman, and Sansa... Sansa is your sister. You may be as different as the sun and moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you... and I need both of you, gods help me.

What were you doing to that cat, boy?” Myrcella asked again, sternly. To her brother she said, “He’s a ragged boy, isn’t he? Look at him.” She giggled. “A ragged dirty smelly boy,” Tommen agreed. They don’t know me, Arya realized. They don’t even know I’m a girl. Small wonder; she was barefoot and dirty, her hair tangled from the long run through the castle, clad in a jerkin ripped by cat claws and brown roughspun pants hacked off above her scabby knees. You don’t wear skirts and silks when you’re catching cats. Quickly she lowered her head and dropped to one knee. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize her. If they did, she would never hear the end of it. Septa Mordane would be mortified, and Sansa would never speak to her again from the shame.

They have been with you every day, my lord. Sansa prays quietly, but Arya …” He hesitated. “She has not said a word since they brought you back. She is a fierce little thing, my lord. I have never seen such anger in a girl.

So there is magic beyond the Wall after all. He found himself thinking of his sisters, perhaps because he’d dreamed of them last night. Sansa would call this an enchantment, and tears would fill her eyes at the wonder of it...

Ago era Robb, Bran, Rickon, sua madre, suo padre e anche Sansa. Ago erano le pareti grigie di Grande Inverno e le risate della sua gente. Ago erano le nevicate estive, le storie della vecchia Nan, era l'albero-cuore con le sue foglie rosse e il terribile volto scolpito nel legno, era l'odore caldo di terra dei giardini coperti, il vento del Nord che faceva sbattere le imposte della sua stanza. Ago era il sorriso di Jon Snow. "Mi spettinava e mi chiamava sorellina" ricordò, e d'un tratto le si riempirono gli occhi di lacrime.

Sansa lowered her head. “The blood frightened me.” “The blood is the seal of your womanhood. Lady Catelyn might have prepared you. You’ve had your first flowering, no more.” Sansa had never felt less flowery. “My lady mother told me, but I . . . I thought it would be different.” “Different how?” “I don’t know. Less . . . less messy, and more magical.” Queen Cersei laughed. “Wait until you birth a child, Sansa. A woman’s life is nine parts mess to one part magic, you’ll learn that soon enough . . . and the parts that look like magic often turn out to be messiest of all.

Tyrion turned to Sansa. "My lady, I am sorry for your losses. Truly, the gods are cruel." Sansa could not think of a word to say to him. How could he be sorry for her losses? Was he mocking her? It wasn't the gods who'd been cruel, it was Joffrey.

---Sansa sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching with a strange fascination. She had never seen a man die before. She ought to be crying too, she thought, but the tears would not come. Perhaps she had used up all her tears for Lady and Bran. It would be different if it had been Jory or Ser Rodrik or Father, she told herself. The young man in the blue cloak was nothing to her, some stranger from the Vale of Arryn whose name she had forgotten as soon as she heard it. And now the world would forget his name too, Sansa realized; there would be no songs sung for him. That was sad.

I don’t always like… the things that I like,

Be brave, she told herself. Be brave, like a lady in a song.

Individul se autoprogrameaza pe sansa sau pe esec, in functie de impresia pe care o are despre sine

Thank you for your many lessons, Lord Baelish. I will never forget them. Sansa Stark

Grandmother,' Margaery said, 'mind your words, or what will Sansa think of us?' 'She might think we have some wits about us. One of us, at any rate.

Only sometimes Sansa found it hard to tell where the man ended and the mask began. Littlefinger and Lord Petyr looked so very much alike.

She stood on the end of the dock, pale and goosefleshed and shivering in the fog. In her hand, Needle seemed to whisper to her. Stick them with the pointy end, it said, and, don’t tell Sansa! Mikken’s mark was on the blade. It’s just a sword. If she needed a sword, there were a hundred under the temple. Needle was too small to be a proper sword, it was hardly more than a toy. She’d been a stupid little girl when Jon had it made for her. “It’s just a sword,” she said, aloud this time . . . . . . but it wasn’t. Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell’s grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan’s stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow’s smile. He used to mess my hair and call me “little sister,” she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. "Little bird," he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. Then he rose from the bed. Sansa heard cloth ripping, followed by the softer sound of retreating footsteps. When she crawled out of bed, long moments later, she was alone. She found his cloak on the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire. The sky outside was darker by then, with only a few pale green ghosts dancing against the stars. A chill wind was blowing, banging the shutters. Sansa was cold. She shook out the torn cloak and huddled beneath it on the floor, shivering.

Alyn carried the Stark banner. When she saw him rein in beside Lord Beric to exchange words, it made Sansa feel ever so proud. Alyn was handsomer than Jory had been; he was going to be a knight one day. The Tower of the Hand

Waiting for a desired result always fills me with frustration, like wanting a painful cut to heal. I want it to be finished now.

When the spirit stepped out of the open tomb, pale white and moaning for blood, Sansa ran shrieking for the stairs, and Bran wrapped himself around Robb’s leg, sobbing. Arya stood her ground and gave the spirit a punch. It was only Jon, covered with flour. “You stupid,” she told him, “you scared the baby,” but Jon and Robb just laughed and laughed, and pretty soon Bran and Arya were laughing too.

Sansa felt as though she were in a dream. “Joffrey is dead,” she told the trees, to see if that would wake her. He had not been dead when she left the throne room. He had been on his knees, though, clawing at his throat, tearing at his own skin as he fought to breathe. The

«Aguja era Robb, Bran, Rickon, su madre y su padre, hasta Sansa. Aguja era los muros grises de Invernalia y las risas de sus habitantes. Aguja era las nieves del verano, los cuentos de la Vieja Tata, el árbol corazón con sus hojas rojas y su rostro aterrador, el cálido olor a tierra de los jardines de cristal, el sonido del viento del norte contra los postigos de su habitación. Aguja era la sonrisa de Jon Nieve»

Robert wanted smiles and cheers, always, so he went where he found them, to his friends and his whores. Robert wanted to be loved. my brother Tyrion has the same disease. Do you want to be loved Sansa?" "Everyone want to be loved." "I see flowering hasn't made you any brighter," said Cersie. "Sansa, permit me to share a bit of womanly wisdom with you on this very special day. Love is a poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same

No". Tyrion's voice was hoarse. "Sansa is no longer yours to torment. Understand that, monster." Joffrey sneered. "You're the monster, Uncle" "Am I?" Tyrion cocked his head. "Perhaps you should speak more softly to me, then. Monsters are dangerous beasts, and just now kinds seem to be dying like flies.

Always keep your foes confused. If they are never certain who you are or what you want, they cannot know what you are like to do next. Sometimes the best way to baffle them is to make moves that have no purpose, or even seem to work against you. Remember that, Sansa, when you come to play the game.” “What … what game?” “The only game. The game of thrones.

In Sansa's dreams, her children looked just like the brothers she had lost. Sometimes there was even a girl who looked like Arya.

Sansa,” Lady Alerie broke in, “you must be very hungry. Shall we have a bite of boar together, and some lemon cakes?” “Lemon cakes

I don’t want to marry you,” Sansa wailed. “You chopped off my father’s head!

I have some devotional books you can look over. Learn to quote from them. Nothing discourages unwanted questions as much as a flow of pious bleating. (Petyr Baelish to Sansa Stark)

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.

Joffrey called out, “Dog!” Sandor Clegane seemed to take form out of the night, so quickly did he appear. He had exchanged his armor for a red woolen tunic with a leather dog’s head sewn on the front. The light of the torches made his burned face shine a dull red. “Yes, Your Grace?” he said. “Take my betrothed back to the castle, and see that no harm befalls her,” the prince told him brusquely. And without even a word of farewell, Joffrey strode off, leaving her there. Sansa could feel the Hound watching her. “Did you think Joff was going to take you himself?” He laughed. He had a laugh like the snarling of dogs in a pit. “Small chance of that.” He pulled her unresisting to her feet. “Come, you’re not the only one needs sleep. I’ve drunk too much, and I may need to kill my brother tomorrow.” He laughed again. He was mocking her, she realized. “No one could withstand him,” she managed at last, proud of herself. It was no lie. Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. “Some septa trained you well. You’re like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren’t you? A pretty little talking -bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite.” “ Take your look.” His fingers held her jaw as hard as an iron trap. His eyes watched hers. Drunken eyes, sullen with anger. She had to look. The right side of his face was gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a grey eye beneath a heavy brow. His nose was large and hooked, his hair thin, dark. He wore it long and brushed it sideways, because no hair grew on the other side of that face. The left side of his face was a ruin. His ear had been burned away; there was nothing left but a hole. His eye was still good, but all around it was a twisted mass of scar, slick black flesh hard as leather, pocked with craters and fissured by deep cracks.

Caracterul inseamna destin. [...]Caracterul, singur, este insuficient pentru profetii. Exista un alt ingredient fundamental, impredictibil. Cum sa-i spunem? Noroc? Sansa? Intamplarea de a te afla la locul potrivit, la momentul potrivit?

As the servants brought out a broth of leeks and mushrooms, Butterbumps began to juggle and Lady Olenna pushed herself forward to rest her elbows on the table. “Do you know my son, Sansa? Lord Puff Fish of Highgarden?” “A great lord,” Sansa

will love him as much as we do, Sansa.” “SHE KICKED AND WAILED, THE MAID SO FAIR, BUT HE LICKED THE HONEY FROM HER HAIR. HER HAIR! HER HAIR! HE LICKED THE HONEY FROM HER HAIR!” “When might I meet him?” asked Sansa, hesitantly. “Soon,” promised Margaery.

The Dead Father was slaying, in a grove of music and musicians. First he slew a harpist and then a performer upon the serpent and also a banger upon the rattle and also a blower of the Persian trumpet and one upon the Indian trumpet and one upon the Hebrew trumpet and one upon the Roman trumpet and one upon the Chinese trumpet of copper-covered wood. Also a blower upon the marrow trumpet and one upon the slide trumpet and one who wearing upon his head the skin of a cat performed upon the menacing murmurous cornu and three blowers on the hunting horn and several blowers of the conch shell and a player of the double aulos and flautists of all descriptions and a Panpiper and a fagotto player and two virtuosos of the quail whistle and a zampogna player whose fingering of the chanters was sweet to the ear and by-the-bye and during the rest period he slew four buzzers and a shawmist and one blower upon the water jar and a clavicytheriumist who was before he slew her a woman, and a stroker of the theorbo and countless nervous-fingered drummers as well as an archlutist, and then whanging his sword this way and that the Dead Father slew a cittern plucker and five lyresmiters and various mandolinists, and slew too a violist and a player of the kit and a picker of the psaltery and a beater of the dulcimer and a hurdy-gurdier and a player of the spike fiddle and sundry kettledrummers and a triangulist and two-score finger cymbal clinkers and a xylophone artist and two gongers and a player of the small semantron who fell with his iron hammer still in his hand and a trictrac specialist and a marimbist and a maracist and a falcon drummer and a sheng blower and a sansa pusher and a manipulator of the gilded ball. The Dead Father resting with his two hands on the hilt of his sword, which was planted in the red and steaming earth. My anger, he said proudly. Then the Dead Father sheathing his sword pulled from his trousers his ancient prick and pissed upon the dead artists, severally and together, to the best of his ability-four minutes, or one pint. Impressive, said Julie, had they not been pure cardboard. My dear, said Thomas, you deal too harshly with him. I have the greatest possible respect for him and for what he represents, said Julie, let us proceed.

He is going to die, Tyrion realized. He felt curiously calm, though pandemonium raged all about him. They were pounding Joff on the back again, but his face was only growing darker. Dogs were barking, children were wailing, men were shouting useless advice at each other. Half the wedding guests were on their feet, some shoving at each other for a better view, others rushing for the doors in their haste to get away. Ser Meryn pried the king’s mouth open to jam a spoon down his throat. As he did, the boy’s eyes met Tyrion’s. He has Jaime’s eyes. Only he had never seen Jaime look so scared. The boy’s only thirteen. Joffrey was making a dry clacking noise, trying to speak. His eyes bulged white with terror, and he lifted a hand . . . reaching for his uncle, or pointing . . . Is he begging my forgiveness, or does he think I can save him? “Noooo,” Cersei wailed, “Father help him, someone help him, my son, my son . . .” Tyrion found himself thinking of Robb Stark. My own wedding is looking much better in hindsight. He looked to see how Sansa was taking this, but there was so much confusion in the hall that he could not find her. But his eyes fell on the wedding chalice, forgotten on the floor. He went and scooped it up. There was still a half-inch of deep purple wine in the bottom of it. Tyrion considered it a moment, then poured it on the floor.

– Mindenki azt akarja, hogy szeressék. – Úgy látom, kivirágzásod nem tett sokkal bölcsebbé – felelte Cersei. – Sansa, engedd meg, hogy megosszak veled némi asszonyi bölcsességet ezen a jeles napon! A szeretet méreg. Nagyon édes méreg, az igaz, de attól még ugyanúgy végez veled.

Cand mi se pare ca iadul meu e aproape de sfarsit, ma intorc de unde am plecat, adica la inceputul iadului. In schimb, cand mi se pare ca nu mai exista nici o sansa, coboara raiul cateva secunde neasteptat, ma bucur de el ca luna de soare in timpul eclipsei, apoi o iau din nou de la inceput, ca Sisif.

You don’t escape from Hell without learning some of the devil’s tricks.

We live in a weird and random universe, people.

Megga couldn’t sing, but she was mad to be kissed. She and Alla played a kissing game sometimes, she confessed, but it wasn’t the same as kissing a man, much less a king. Sansa wondered what Megga would think about kissing the Hound, as she had. He’d come to her the night of the battle stinking of wine and blood. He kissed me and threatened to kill me, and made me sing him a song.

A daughter.' Brienne’s eyes filled with tears. 'He deserves that. A daughter who could sing to him and grace his hall and bear him grandsons. He deserves a son too, a strong and gallant son to bring honor to his name. Galladon drowned when I was four and he was eight, though, and Alysanne and Arianne died still in the cradle. I am the only child the gods let him keep. The freakish one, not fit to be a son or daughter.' All of it came pouring out of Brienne then, like black blood from a wound; the betrayals and betrothals, Red Ronnet and his rose, Lord Renly dancing with her, the wager for her maidenhead, the bitter tears she shed the night her king wed Margaery Tyrell, the mêlée at Bitterbridge, the rainbow cloak that she had been so proud of, the shadow in the king’s pavilion, Renly dying in her arms, Riverrun and Lady Catelyn, the voyage down the Trident, dueling Jaime in the woods, the Bloody Mummers, Jaime crying "Sapphires," Jaime in the tub at Harrenhal with steam rising from his body, the taste of Vargo Hoat’s blood when she bit down on his ear, the bear pit, Jaime leaping down onto the sand, the long ride to King’s Landing, Sansa Stark, the vow she’d sworn to Jaime, the vow she’d sworn to Lady Catelyn, Oathkeeper, Duskendale, Maidenpool, Nimble Dick and Crackclaw and the Whispers, the men she’d killed . . .

Let me tell you something about wolves, child. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. So if you must hate, Arya, hate those who would truly do us harm. Septa Mordane is a good woman, and Sansa … Sansa is your sister. You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you … and I need both of you, gods help me.

Let me tell you something about wolves, child. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. So if you must hate, Arya, hate those who would truly do us harm. Septa Mordane is a good woman, and Sansa...Sansa is your sister. You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you...and I need both of you, gods help me.

The last of the night’s stars had vanished … all but the pair dead ahead. “It’s two stars now.” “Two eyes,” said Denyo. “The Titan sees us.” The Titan of Braavos. Old Nan had told them stories of the Titan back in Winterfell. He was a giant as tall as a mountain, and whenever Braavos stood in danger he would wake with fire in his eyes, his rocky limbs grinding and groaning as he waded out into the sea to smash the enemies. “The Braavosi feed him on the juicy pink flesh of little highborn girls,” Nan would end, and Sansa would give a stupid squeak. But Maester Luwin said the Titan was only a statue, and Old Nan’s stories were only stories.

Would you like that, Sansa?” asked Margaery. “I’ve never had a sister, only brothers. Oh, please say yes, please say that you will consent to marry my brother.” The words came tumbling out her. “Yes. I will. I would like that more than anything. To wed Ser Loras, to love him …” “Loras!” Lady Olenna sounded annoyed. “Don’t be foolish, child. Kingsguard never wed. Didn’t they teach you anything in Winterfell? We were speaking of my grandson Willas. He is a bit old for you, to be sure, but a dear boy for all that. Not the least bit oafish, and heir to Highgarden besides.” Sansa felt dizzy; one instant her head was full of dreams of Loras, and the next they had all been snatched away. Willas! Willas! “I,” she said stupidly. Courtesy

Cele mai urate fraze din lume sunt doua: 'trebuie sa vorbim' si 'vreau sa ramanem prieteni'. Cel mai nostim e ca rezultatul lor e intodeauna opus si pune capat atat conversatiei, cat si prieteniei." Frederic Beigbeder "Ne e greu sa intelegem ca cel pe care il iubim... iubeste altfel." "Mi-am antrenat atat de bine asteptarile, incat dezamagirile aproape ca nu ma mai gasesc niciodata acasa..." "Atat avem AZI la indemana, caci despre MAINE nu avem niciodata suficiente informatii. Si daca din fiecare AZI ramane un IERI interesant, inseamna ca timpul n-a fost pierdut." "In viata, dansul in doi poate ca nu e esential, poate ca poti trai si fara sa stii cadenta de salsa sau diagonala de tangou, dar in iubire, sa nu stii sa dansezi cu jumatatea ta, sa nu-i faci niciodata curte astfel, sa nu-i dai sansa de a ameti in piruete si cambrari in bratele tale pare trist, descurajant si mediocru." "Cum ne iubiti, asa va daruim viata...

Si daca victoria lui ma pune pe ganduri, n-as putea sa nu observ ca unica sansa a toreadorului e sa aiba incredere, in arena, in ceea ce face. Viata lui depinde de credinta lui. Trebuie sa creada in sine, in arta sa, in sansa sa, fara sa fie nici arogant, nici umil. Curajul prostesc si teama de risc sunt deopotriva de primejdioase pentru el. Un toreador - imi iau libertatea de a folosi acest cuvant intr-un sens larg - nu poarta obligatoriu un costum stralucitor si nu tine neaparat o sabie in mana. El poate, foarte bine, sa se foloseasca de o masina de scris (!), eventual o "Smith Corona" veche, prapadita, obosita, care trebuie asezata uneori oblic pentru a functiona, dar inca mai poate fi utilizata, ca arma, impotriva spaimei ca timpul trece nemilos. [...] Toreadorul nu risca, infruntandu-si taurul, sa fie ucis. El are posibilitatea sa ezite, sa faca un pas inapoi, apoi altul (fara sa i se reproseze asta), sa revina, sa corecteze o stangacie, sa repare o greseala. Nimeni nu-l vede, nu-l urmareste cu sufletul la gura cand se lupta, nu-l sileste sa braveze daca se teme, nu-l face sa simta rasuflarea fierbinte a destinului in ceafa, iar un pas gresit nu se plateste pe loc. El poate amana confruntarea cand e obosit, poate cumpani, poate renunta de o mie de ori, fara ca nimeni sa afle, si tot de atatea ori sa o ia de la capat. Dincolo de fereastra, in acest timp, nu se modifica nimic; aceiasi plopi innegriti de ploi, aceleasi ziduri cu iedera uscata. In schimb, taurul poate veni aici din orice ungher. Si poate fi orice: o teama, plictiseala, o amintire, o indoiala, o deruta. E un taur care nu omoara, dar e, poate, mai greu de rapus fiindca el ataca uneori insasi vointa de a invinge.