What is honor compared to a woman’s love? And what is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms? Or a brother’s smile?
You will find little joy in your command, but with luck, you will find the strength to do what needs to be done. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy, and let the man be born.
We all do our duty when there’s no cost to it. Honor comes easy then.
Nothing makes the past a sweeter place to visit than the prospect of imminent death.
Love is the death of duty.
Old age is a wonderful source of ironies if nothing else.
