The Only Game. The Game Of Thrones.

And I Have A Tender Spot In My Heart For Cripples And Bastards And Broken Things.

Can They Love Without A Word For It?

The Man Who Never Reads Lives Only One.

When You Smell Our Candles Burning, What Does It Make You Think Of, My Child?" Winterfell, She Might Have Said. I Smell Snow And Smoke And Pine Needles. I Smell The Stables. I Smell Hodor Laughing, And Jon And Robb Battling In The Yard, And Sansa Singing About Some Stupid Lady Fair. I Smell The Crypts Where The Stone Kings Sit. I Smell Hot Bread Baking. I Smell The Godswood. I Smell My Wolf. I Smell Her Fur, Almost As If She Were Still Beside Me. "i Don't Smell Anything," She Said.

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.