T H E K I N G I N T H E N O R T H
It hurts so much – she thought – our children, Ned, all our sweet babes. Rickon, Bran, Arya, Sansa, Robb… Robb… please, Ned, please, make it stop, make it stop hurting. // Catelyn Stark before her death in A Storm of Swords.
Oh, my sweet summer child, what do you know of fear? Fear is for the winter, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry, and the white walkers move through the woods.