Stark Wolf Quotes

You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the North. You told me you could be strong. You have the wolf blood in 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.

Even now, long days later, the memory filled him with a bitter rage. All his life Tyrion had prided himself on his cunning, the only gift the gods had seen fit to give him, and yet this seven-times-damned she-wolf Catelyn Stark had outwitted him at every turn. The knowledge was more galling than the bare fact of his abduction.

The wolf blood, Arya remembered now. I'll be as strong as Robb, I said I would. She took a deep breath, then lifted the broomstick in both hands and brought down across her knee. It broke with a loud crack, and she threw the pieces aside. 'I am a direwolf, and done with the wooden teeth.

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.

I'm not an owl. I'm a wolf. I'll howl. -Arya Stark

It was different when there was a Stark in Winterfell. But the old wolf’s dead and young one’s gone south to play the game of thrones, and all that’s left us is the ghosts.

Make me a water dancer and a wolf and not afraid again, ever.

I’m not ready to settle down with anyone. Especially not someone that I’ve only just met. I’d have to be stark, raving mad to give up my life. I don’t know how I can trust you. I. Don’t. Know. You.

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.

These wolves are more than wolves, Robb. You must know that. I think perhaps the gods sent them to us. Your father's gods, the old gods of the north. Five wolf pups, Robb, five for five Stark children.

It was a surreal vision, a waking dream, a stark reminder that perhaps in the breaking of precious things, something even more precious than we can imagine might be unleashed. Perhaps in the breaking, we can find the healing we long for.

The inside of the Trace Italian, of course, does not exist. A player can get close enough to see it: it shines in the new deserts of Kansas, gleaming in the sun or starkly rising from the winter cold. The rock walls that protect it meet in points around it, one giving way to another, for days on end. But the dungeons into which you'll fall as you work through the pathways to its gates number in the low hundreds, and if you actually get into the entry hall, there are a few hundred more sub-dungeons before you'll actually reach somewhere that's truly safe. Technically, it's possible to get to the last room in the final chamber of the Trace Italian, but no one will ever do it. No one will ever live that long.

To be revered, first, you go stark raving mad, then you exit this world in a blaze.

I am a wolf and I will not be afraid

All his life Tyrion had prided himself on his cunning, the only gift the gods had seen fit to give him, and yet this seven-times-damned she-wolf Catelyn Stark had outwitted him at every turn. The

The foremost challenge for leaders today, we suggest, is to maintain the clarity to stand confidently in the abundant universe of possibility, no matter how fierce the competition, no matter how stark the necessity to go for the short-term goal, no matter how fearful people are, and no matter how urgently the wolf may appear to howl at the door. It is to have the courage and persistence to distinguish the downward spiral from the radiant realm of possibility in the face of any challenge.

There was once a beautiful boy Who cried 'Wolf', every night. He would tell everyone he saw Of the animals azure eyes, The throat-gripping terror and fright. His friends and lovers came in droves With sticks & words, threats and stoves. They loved his beauty and wanted him safe Of the menacing claws, he said lived inside a cave. Every night with will anew, They waited and plotted beatings Black and blue. Nights turned to dusk Lovers to strangers, Days to years, The wolf never came His stories they couldn't bear to hear. So lived the gorgeous boy, Icy winter nights alone, Still muttering about the wolf So beastly and regal, it needed a throne. He spoke about its glistening fur, Razor sharp claws, yellowed breath And treacherous purr. How the wolf would howl every night, At a monstrous moon Far away and stark bright. He heard its padded steps From miles away Horrified by the wildness, Its softly heaving chest would betray. Alone the boy, with the beautiful smile Died In time to realise The wolf only ever howled inside.

Hush, child,” said Lady Leona. “You heard your lord grandfather. Hush! You know nothing.” “I know about the promise,” insisted the girl. “Maester Theomore, tell them! A thousand years before the Conquest, a promise was made, and oaths were sworn in the Wolf’s Den before the old gods and the new. When we were sore beset and friendless, hounded from our homes and in peril of our lives, the wolves took us in and nourished us and protected us against our enemies. The city is built upon the land they gave us. In return we swore that we should always be their men. Stark men!

She heard nothing but experienced a sensation that prickled along her spine like a warm touch caressing her skin. Slowly, with the care of prey beneath a predator's survey, she turned her head- and met the gaze of the elegant gentleman lounging at the door. In her travels, she had seen many a striking and charming man, but none had been as handsome as this- and all had been more charming. This man was a statue in stark black and white, hewn from rugged granite and adolescent dreams. His face wasn't really handsome; his nose was thin and crooked, his eyes heavy lidded, his cheekbones broad, stark and hollowed. But he wielded a quality of power, of toughness, that made Eleanor want to huddle into a shivering, cowardly little ball. Then he smiled, and she caught her breath in awe. His mouth... his glorious, sensual mouth. His lips were wide, too wide, and broad, too broad. His teeth were white, clean, strong as a wolf's. He looked like a man seldom amused by life, but he was amused by her, and she realized in a rush of mortification that she remained standing on the stool, reading one of his books and lost to the grave realities of her situation. The reality that stated she was an imposter, sent to mollify this man until the real duchess could arrive. Mollify? Him? Not likely. Nothing would mollify him. Nothing except... well, whatever it was he wanted. And she wasn't fool enough to think she knew what that was. The immediate reality was that she would somehow have to step down onto the floor and of necessity expose her ankles to his gaze. It wasn't as if he wouldn't look. He was looking now, observing her figure with an appreciation all the more impressive for its subtlety. His gaze flicked along her spine, along her backside, and down her legs with such concentration that she formed the impression he knew very well what she looked like clad only in her chemise- and that was an unnerving sensation.

That night he dreamed of the feast Ned Stark had thrown when King Robert came to Winterfell. The hall rang with music and laughter, though the cold winds were rising outside. At first it was all wine and roast meat, and Theon was making japes and eyeing the serving girls and having himself a fine time … until he noticed that the room was growing darker. The music did not seem so jolly then; he heard discords and strange silences, and notes that hung in the air bleeding. Suddenly the wine turned bitter in his mouth, and when he looked up from his cup he saw that he was dining with the dead. King Robert sat with his guts spilling out on the table from the great gash in his belly, and Lord Eddard was headless beside him. Corpses lined the benches below, grey-brown flesh sloughing off their bones as they raised their cups to toast, worms crawling in and out of the holes that were their eyes. He knew them, every one; Jory Cassel and Fat Tom, Porther and Cayn and Hullen the master of horse, and all the others who had ridden south to King’s Landing never to return. Mikken and Chayle sat together, one dripping blood and the other water. Benfred Tallhart and his Wild Hares filled most of a table. The miller’s wife was there as well, and Farlen, even the wildling Theon had killed in the wolfswood the day he had saved Bran’s life. But there were others with faces he had never known in life, faces he had seen only in stone. The slim, sad girl who wore a crown of pale blue roses and a white gown spattered with gore could only be Lyanna. Her brother Brandon stood beside her, and their father Lord Rickard just behind. Along the walls figures half-seen moved through the shadows, pale shades with long grim faces. The sight of them sent fear shivering through Theon sharp as a knife. And then the tall doors opened with a crash, and a freezing gale blew down the hall, and Robb came walking out of the night. Grey Wind stalked beside, eyes burning, and man and wolf alike bled from half a hundred savage wounds.

A book, cover open, the first page is magic, light filtering through a forest of leaves, each gray stroke subtle perfection blended beautifully, something moves, stirring in my depths, water flows from the second page, pouring out around me until I’m swimming, tossed back and forth from rock to rock, along the monotone rivers bumpy edges, page three is stark white, its emptiness echoes inside me, reverberations making their way up to silence what’s bouncing around in my head, fingers follow fingers, turning and turning and turning, till I near the end of the line, at last admitting the journey is over, yet another path is open, hidden in plain sight, pages releasing their hold on one another to reveal the treasure, and lead me to what I had no idea I was seeking, bodies folded into one under silken skin lips and hands, and my heartbeat hammering in my chest, fire burning in my cheeks, along with something more, something new, terrifying and strong, with one final turn a name burns itself into my brain, letters forever engraved, who would have thought, someone already knows what bounces round my head, in sudden hast, the flock returns to its pasture, grazing on gossip and sugary smothered breakfast, as I quietly fade into the background, a wolf desperate to be a sheep, my discovery hides out of sight, waiting to serve as a catalyst, there’s more than one of us here.

A book, cover open, the first page is magic, light filtering through a forest of leaves, each gray stroke subtle perfection blended beautifully, something moves, stirring in my depths, water flows from the second page, pouring out around me until I’m swimming, tossed back and forth from rock to rock, along the monotone rivers bumpy edges, page three is stark white, its emptiness echoes inside me, reverberations making their way up to silence what’s bouncing around in my head, fingers follow fingers, turning and turning and turning, till I near the end of the line, at last admitting the journey is over, yet another path is open, hidden in plain sight, pages releasing their hold on one another to reveal the treasure, and lead me to what I had no idea I was seeking, bodies folded into one under silken skin lips and hands, and my heartbeat hammering in my chest, fire burning in my cheeks, along with something more, something new, terrifying and strong, with one final turn a name burns itself into my brain, letters forever engraved, who would have thought, someone already knows what bounces round my head, in sudden hast, the flock returns to its pasture, grazing on gossip and sugary smothered breakfast, as I quietly fade into the background, a wolf desperate to be a sheep, my discovery hides out of sight, waiting to serve as a catalyst, there’s more than one of us here.

The duke was standing before the open windows…stark naked. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged, and Jules could only stare as the silvery beam from the moonlight painted itself over his body. His thighs and calves were thick and powerful, stomach and buttocks lean and delineated with muscle. Though they stood several feet apart, she was all too aware of the breadth of his shoulders, his height, and the inherent power in his body. You are so beautifully formed, Your Grace. Alarmingly, her cheeks went hot, then her throat and belly. He was so compelling she stared helplessly, absurdly grateful for the darkened room. Jules drew a soft breath, trying to calm the wild pounding of her heart. The duke tilted his head, baring to her gaze the strong column of his throat. She refused to look lower than his shoulders, not wanting to feel that baffling heat stabbing her belly. He inhaled, and it came on a soft growl when he released his breath. She bit into her lower lip, hard, for that thumping heat low in her belly responded viscerally to that low growl. The corner of the duke’s mouth curled upward and seemed mocking and cynical. Still, she was struck by the incredible sensual beauty of that small smile. Unexpectedly he turned his head and stared directly at her. Jules froze, even her breathing suspended. Though she held herself astonishingly still, her heart jerked with more erratic force. Surely he could not see her. It is impossible. Yet she felt way down inside her, every nuance of his stare. Perilous tension coated the air, and she waited for him to move closer to her, but he turned away and padded over to the bed, the darkness hiding him from her entirely. Jules could not say how long she waited, listening for sounds that he slept. It could have been a few minutes or an hour. She heard nothing, and again she couldn’t escape the feeling the duke knew someone was in the room with him. But why did he not say or do something if he suspects it? She closed her eyes and drew strength for calm, allowing that she might be panicking in vain. There was no peril, and she only had to leave his chamber without being noticed. Jules waited a few more minutes before softly moving from behind the drapes. She paused, then lowered herself to her knees and crawled on her hands and knees to the door. She almost smiled at her absurdity but marshaled her reaction and ventured forward as fast as possible. At the door, she reached up and gently eased open the latch, grateful the hallway was also dark. Perhaps if the duke was awake, he might not notice the slight opening of his door. She crawled through the small space created, and once in the hallway, she lurched to her feet and hurried toward her door.

It’s just fantastic. It was like scales falling from your eyes and from your ears at the same time. It broke open the dam. Ian Stewart used to refer to us affectionately as “my little three-chord wonders.” But it is an honorable title. OK, this song has got three chords, right? What can you do with those three chords? Tell it to John Lee Hooker; most of his songs are on one chord. Howlin’ Wolf stuff, one chord, and Bo Diddley. It was listening to them that made me realize that silence was the canvas. Filling it all in and speeding about all over the place was certainly not my game and it wasn’t what I enjoyed listening to. With five strings you can be sparse; that’s your frame, that’s what you work on. “Start Me Up,” “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking,” “Honky Tonk Women,” all leave those gaps between the chords. That’s what I think “Heartbreak Hotel” did to me. It was the first time I’d heard something so stark. I wasn’t thinking like that in those days, but that’s what hit me. It was the incredible depth, instead of everything being filled in with curlicues. To a kid of my age back then, it was startling. With the five-string it was just like turning a page; there’s another story. And I’m still exploring. My man Waddy Wachtel, guitar player extraordinaire, interpreter of my musical gropings, ace up the sleeve of the X-Pensive Winos, has something to say on this topic. Take the floor, Wads.

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.

The Idaho “wolf wars” offer insight into the political, economic, and cultural boundaries that mark the contemporary Northwest. An examination of them reveals stark divisions that appear to be widening well into the twenty-first century.

And there, amid the peaceful Houston elms on Quenby Road, it dawned on them all that this woman—which one of us even knows her?—had completed her trip. She had gone with the flow. She had gone stark raving mad.

Wolf remembered the conversation inside the observatory from the day before. Vlad worked for the EAS, overseeing the logistics of moving astronomical equipment between observatories throughout the European Union. A clear mental picture was forming in Wolf’s mind as to the true nature of Vlad’s activities. As of now it looked like, along with astronomical equipment, Vlad was trafficking stolen electronics. All of them supplied by a gang of thugs led by Cezar. Small light-colored boxes caught his attention, stacked underneath the open boxes of electronics. Wolf pushed back one on top, unveiling a stark white cardboard one about a foot cubed in size. A dark-blue logo was faintly visible on the side. He bent closer and ran his finger across it. It was the letters EAS with what looked to be stars or planets. He lifted the box. It was packed dense and heavy, and shaking didn’t

So the huge march turned around and headed for Civic Center Park in Berkeley and stood around there eating hamburgers and listening to music by a jug band—a group that later became known as Country Joe and the Fish—and wondering what the hell had happened. Then somebody started throwing tear gas from a rooftop and Bob Scheer was bravely telling everybody to lie down on the grass, because tear gas rises—but the jug band just stood there, petrified, with their hands and their instruments frozen in the same position as when the gas hit. It seems the jug band was high on something or other, and when the gas hit, the combination of the gas and whatever they were already up on—it petrified them and they stood there in stark stiff medias res as if they were posing for an Iwo Jima sculpture for the biggest antiwar rally in the history of the American people. The whole rally now seemed like a big half ass, with the frozen jug band the picture of how far they had gotten.