A few years as Hand of the King would make anyone want to pi** off the edge of the world.
A dragon queen with no dragons is not a queen.
You’ve forgotten the most important thing about wh**es. You don’t buy them, you only rent them.
You’re the son of the last true Warden of the North. Northern families are loyal. They’ll fight for you if you ask. A monster has taken our home and our brother. We have to go back to Winterfell and save them both.
You’re better than me at everything. Except reading.
You want to be Hand of the King? You want to rule? This is what ruling is, lying on a bed of weeds, ripping them out by the root, one by one, before they strangle you in your sleep.
Women in our position must make the best of our circumstances.
Without Littlefinger and Ramsay and the rest, I would have stayed a Little Bird all my life.
Who are we? We have no names, no family. Every one of us is poor and powerless. And yet together, we can overthrow an empire.
When you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, best close your eyes, get it over with.
When a man’s blood is up, anything with t*ts looks good.
What unites people? Armies? Gold? Flags? Stories. There’s nothing in the world more powerful than a good story. Nothing can stop it. No enemy can defeat it.
