Jojen Reed was thirteen, only four years older than Bran. Jojen wasn’t much bigger either, no more than two inches or maybe three. He had a solemn way of talking that made him seem older and wiser than he really was.
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My name is not Alayne, it’s Sansa Stark eldest daughter of lord Eddard Stark…Since my father was executed I’ve been a hostage in King’s Landing, a plaything for Joffrey to torture or queen Cersei to torment. They beat me, they humiliated me, they married me to the Imp.
People will whisper, they’ll make their jokes. Let them. They’re all so small I can’t even see them.
Jaqen said to say the words too. Arya crossed her arms against her chest. “Valar morghulis,” she said, as loud as if she’d known what it meant.
Tyrion wanted to slap him, to spit in his face, to draw his dagger and cut the heart out of him and see if it was made of old hard gold, the way the smallfolks said. Yet he sat there, silent and still.
“Going at it alone, you won’t last a day out there.”
“I’ll last longer than you.”
“Love’s not always wise, I’ve learned. It can lead us to great folly, but we follow our hearts … wherever they take us.”
You’re speaking to the one true king, boy. You will address him as your grace.
darknesstohislight 