In The End Words Are Just Wind.

Ofttimes A Very Small Man Can Cast A Very Large Shadow. Tyrion Smiled. Lord Varys, I Am Growing Strangely Fond Of You. I May Kill You Yet, But I Think I'd Feel Sad About It. I Will Take That As High Praise.

The Morning Had Dawned Clear And Cold, With A Crispness That Hinted At The End Of Summer.

But The Real Enemy Is The Cold. It Steals Up On You Quieter Than Will, And At First You Shiver And Your Teeth Chatter And You Stamp Your Feet And Dream Of Mulled Wine And Nice Hot Fires. It Burns, It Does. Nothing Burns Like The Cold. But Only For A While. Then It Gets Inside You And Starts To Fill You Up, And After A While You Don't Have The Strength To Fight It. It's Easier Just To Sit Down Ot Go To Sleep. They Say You Don't Feel Any Pain Toward The End. First You Go Weak And Drowsy, And Everything Starts To Fade, And Then It's Like Sinking Into A Sea Of Warm Milk. Peaceful, Like.

It Is Being Common-born That Is Dangerous, When The Great Lords Play Their Game Of Thrones.

You Make Us Look Bad', Complained Toad. 'you Looked Bad Before I Ever Met You', Jon Told Him.