Frog-faced Lord Slynt sat at the end of the council table wearing a black velvet doublet and a shiny cloth-of-gold cape, nodding with approval every time the king pronounced a sentence. Sansa stared hard at his ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ser Ilyn to behead, wishing she could hurt him, wishing that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head. But a voice inside her whispered, There are no heroes…
I am a childhood toy, with my
arms broken off,
kept for so long in nostalgia;
I am your favorite song from high school,
but I don’t quite sound the same
I am a tattered souvenir
shirt from a friend,
buried deep in your closet because
it would be rude to throw me away;
I am a tarnished nickel,
green with corrosion, lost
in the dust between
your bed and the wall, and I
never was worth much to you.
He stalked across the yard, into the teeth of that wind. His cloak flapped loudly from his shoulders. Ghost came after. Where am I going? What am I doing? Castle Black was still and silent, its halls and towers dark. My seat, Jon Snow reflected. My hall, my home, my command. A ruin.
In the shadow of the Wall, the direwolf brushed up against his fingers. For half a heartbeat the night came alive with a thousand smells, and Jon Snow heard the crackle of the crust breaking on a patch of old snow. Someone was behind him, he realized suddenly. Someone who smelled warm as a summer day.
When he turned he saw Ygritte.
She stood beneath the scorched stones of the Lord Commander’s Tower, cloaked in darkness and in memory. The light of the moon was in her hair, her red hair kissed by fire. When he saw that, Jon’s heart leapt into his mouth. “Ygritte,” he said.
— Jon Snow - A Dance with Dragons
if you go to buy a novel that’s been adapted into a movie and you choose the cover with the actors instead of the original cover, i swear to fucking god i will track you down and hug you so hard for choosing to read a book at all regardless of the fucking cover and the opinions of book elitists