Mothers." The Man Made A Word Sound

The Air Smelled Of Paper And Dust And Years.

Littlefinger: A Trade Envoy From Lys Once Observed To Me That Lord Stannis Must Love His Daughter Very Well, Since He'd Erected Hundreds Of Statues Of Her All Along The Walls Of Dragonstone. Tyrion: My Lord, Those Are Gargoyles.

My Old Grandmother Always Used To Say, Summer Friends Will Melt Away Like Summer Snows, But Winter Friends Are Friends Forever.

Needle Was Robb And Bran And Rickon, Her Mother And Her Father, Even Sansa. Needle Was Winterfell's Grey Walls, And The Laughter Of Its People. Needle Was The Summer Snows, Old Nan's Stories, The Heart Tree With Its Red Leaves And Scary Face, The Warm Earthy Smell Of The Glass Gardens, The Sound Of The North Wind Rattling The Shutters Of Her Room. Needle Was Jon Snow's Smile. He Used To Mess My Hair And Call Me "little Sister," She Remembered, And Suddenly There Were Tears In Her Eyes.

If The Novels Are Still Being Read In 50 Years, No One Is Ever Going To Say: 'what's Great About That Sixth Book Is That He Met His Deadline!' It Will Be About How The Whole Thing Stands Up.