A Poorly Drawn Cat

When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. 

Ned’s wraiths moved up beside him, with shadow swords in hand. They were seven against three. “And now it begins,” said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light. "No,“ Ned said with sadness in his voice. “Now it ends.” As they came together in a rush of steel and shadow, he could hear Lyanna screaming. “Eddard!” she called. A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as blue as the eyes of death. ♦ requested by roadiekingofkings 

abraham lincoln, the gettysburg address   (via stereobone)