Feast for Crows

Words are like arrows...once loosened, you cannot call them back.

He understood the way that you could sometimes fall right into them, as if each page was a hole into another world.

I prefer my history dead.  Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.

Words are wind.

His strength, his speed, his valor, all his hard-won skill...it was worth less than a mummer’s fart, because he flinched from killing.  Remember that.

Beneath the gold the bitter steel.

Learn three new things before you come back to us...

Learn three new things before you come back to us...she always did.  Sometimes it was no more than three new words of the Braavosi tongue.  Sometimes she brought back sailor’s tales, of strange and wondrous happenings from the wide wet world beyond the isles of Braavos, wars and rains of toads and dragons hatching.  Sometimes she learned three new japes or three new riddles, or tricks of this trade or the other.  And every so often, she would learn some secret.

It is being common-born that is dangerous, when the great lords play their game of thrones...

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