We're All Just Songs In The End.

What Do You Like To Do?” She Scuffed A Toe Amongst The Rushes. “needlework.” “very Restful, Isn’t It?” “well,” Said Arya, “not The Way I Do It.

My Skin Has Turned To Porcelain, To Ivory, To Steel.

I Can Be Humbler Than Anyone.

Choosing... It Has Always Hurt. And Always Will. I Know.

The North Remembers, Lord Davos. The North Remembers, And The Mummer’s Farce Is Almost Done. My Son Is Home.