George R.R. Martin

The only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid.

Lady Selyse was as tall as her husband, thin of body and thin of face, with prominent ears, a sharp nose, and the faintest hint of a mustache on her upper lip. She plucked it daily and cursed it regularly, yet it never failed to return. Her eyes were pale, her mouth stern, her voice a whip. She cracked it now.

They laughed at him, but they didn't know, they didn't know about all the nice things he had. No one knew. No one. Only someday he'd see somebody different, somebody to give his things to, somebody who would give him all their things. Yes. He'd like that. He'd know her when he saw her. He'd know just what to say.

Bad and worse and worst makes a beggar's choice.

Nobody is a villain in their own story. We're all the heroes of our own stories.

There are no heroes...in life, the monsters win.

It is hard to die unmourned.

All men must die. We are but death's instruments, not death himself.

A man is never so vulnerable in a battle as when he flees," Lord Eddard has told Jon once. "A running man is like a wounded animal to a soldier. It gets his bloodlust up.

The battle fever. He had never thought to experience it himself, though Jamie had told him of it often enough. How time seemed to blur and slow and evenstop, how the past and the future vanished until there was nothing but the instant, how fear fled, and thought fled, and even you body. "You don't feel your wounds then, or the ache in your back from the weight of the armor, or the sweat running down into your eyes. You stop feeling you stop thinking, you stop being you, there is only the fight , the foe, this man and then the next and the next and the next, and you know they are afraid and tired but you're not, you're alive, and death is all around you but their swords move so slowly, you can dance through them laughing." Battle fever. I am half a man and drunk with slaughter, let them kill me if they can!

Fighting is better than this waiting,_ Brienne said. __ou don__ feel so helpless when you fight. You have a sword and a horse, sometimes an axe. When you__e armored it__ hard for anyone to hurt you.___nights die in battle,_ Catelyn reminded her.Brienne looked at her with those blue and beautiful eyes. __s ladies die in childbed. No one sings songs about them.

Then Royce's parry came a beat too late. The pale sword bit through the ringmail beneath his arm. The young Lord cried out in pain. Blood welled between the rings. It seemed red as fire where they touched the snow.

The looters comes with the carrion crows after every battle.

Disease could wipe out an army quicker than any battle.

No singer would ever make a song about that battle. No maester would ever write down an account for one of the Reader's beloved books. No banners flew, no warhorns moaned, no great lord called his men about him to hear his final ringing words. They fought in the predawn gloom, shadow against shadow, stumbling over roots and rocks, with mud and rotting leaves beneath their feet.

Never speak of defeat before battle.

Mine is the blood of the dragon.

A bloody sword is a beautiful thing.