#asoiafreread

She felt like a child once more, only thirteen and all alone, not ready for what was about to happen to her.

He can make me look at the heads, she told herself, but he can't make me see them.

He caught a glimpse of Septa Mordane in the gallery, with his daughter Sansa beside her. Ned felt a flash of anger; this was no place for a girl. But the septa could not have known that today’s court would be anything but the usual tedious business of hearing petitions, settling disputes between rival holdfasts, and adjudicating the placement of boundary stones.

Syrio had told her once that darkness could be her friend, and he was right

Jeyne Poole wept so hysterically that Septa Mordane finally took her off to regain her composure, but Sansa sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching with a strange fascination. She had never seen a man die before. She ought to be crying too, she thought, but the tears would not come. Perhaps she had used up all her tears for Lady and Bran. It would be different if it had been Jory or Ser Rodrik or Father, she told herself. The young knight in the blue cloak was nothing to her, some stranger from the Vale of Arryn whose name she had forgotten as soon as she heard it.

The cloth was so smooth that it seemed to run through her fingers like water.  She could not remember ever wearing anything so soft.  It frightened her.

The blind man smiled.  He was a tiny thing, wrinkled and hairless, shrunken beneath the weight of a hundred years so his maester’s collar with all its links of many metals hung loose about his throat.  “I have been called many things, my lord,” he said, “but kind is seldom one of them.”  This time Tyrion himself led the laughter.