They are the daughters of winter; the children of the North. Two sides of the same coin, going through one journey, taking two different roads.

He remembered the smell of her hair, the warmth of her body.. and the look on her face as she slit the old man’s throat. You were wrong to love her, a voice whispered. You were wrong to leave her, a different voice insisted.”

“Your own king is dead,” Davos reminded them, “murdered at the Red Wedding beside Lord Wyman’s son.” “The Young Wolf is dead,” Manderly allowed, “but that brave boy was not Lord Eddard’s only son.”

T h e y  h a v e  m a d e  m e  a  L a n n i s t e r

Growing up at Winterfell, all I ever wanted was to escape, to come here, to the capital. To see the southern knights and their painted armor, King’s Landing after dark, all the candles burning in all those windows.


And how many lives have you saved?