“After my name day feast, I’m going to raise a host and kill your brother myself. That’s what I’ll give you, Lady Sansa. Your brother’s head.”A kind of madness took over her then, and she heard herself say, “Maybe my brother will give me your head.”

“My featherbed is deep and soft,and there I’ll lay you down,I’ll dress you all in yellow silkand on your head a crown.For you shall be my lady love,and I shall be your lord.I’ll always keep you warm and safe,and guard you with my sword.And how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the tree.She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me.I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves,and bind my hair with grass,But you can be my forest love,and me your forest lass.”

“Sansa lowered her head. “The blood frightened me.”“The blood is the seal of your womanhood. Lady Catelyn might have prepared you. You’ve had your first flowering, no more.”Sansa had never felt less flowery. “My lady mother told me, but I . . . I thought it would be different.”“Different how?”“I don’t know. Less . . . less messy, and more magical.”Queen Cersei laughed. “Wait until you birth a child, Sansa. A woman’s life is nine parts mess to one part magic, you’ll learn that soonenough . . . and the parts that look like magic often turn out to be messiest of all.”

“Your brother Jaime keeps losing battles. He gave Sansa an angry look, as if it were her fault. He’s been taken by the Starks and we’ve lost Riverrun and now her stupid brother is calling himself a king.The dwarf smiled crookedly. “All sorts of people are calling themselves kings these days.”

“Robert wanted to be loved. My brother Tyrion has the same disease. Do you want to be loved, Sansa?”“Everyone wants to be loved.”“I see flowering hasn’t made you any brighter,” said Cersei. “Sansa, permit me to share a bit of womanly wisdom with you on this very special day. Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.”

“Your brother Robb has been crowned King in the North. You and Aemon have that in common. A king for a brother.” said Mormont.“And this too,” said Jon. “A vow.”The Old Bear gave a loud snort, and the raven took flight, flapping in a circle about the room. “Give me a man for every vow I’ve seen broken and the Wall will never lack for defenders.”“I’ve always known that Rob will be Lord of Winterfell.”Mormont gave a whistle, and the bird flew to him again and settled on his arm. “A lord’s one thing, a king’s another. They will garb your brother Robb in silks, satins, and velvets of a hundred different colors, while you live and die in black ringmail. He will wed some beautiful princess and father sons on her. You’ll have no wife, nor will you ever hold a child of your own blood in your arms. Robb will rule, you will serve. Men will call you a crow. Him they’ll call `Your Grace’. Singers will praise every little thing he does, while your greatest deeds all go unsung. Tell me that none of this troubles you, Jon… and I’ll name you a liar, and know I have the truth of it.”Jon drew himself up, taut as a bowstring “And if it did trouble me, what might I do, bastard as I am?”“What will you do?” Mormont asked. “Bastard as you are.”“Be troubled,” said Jon, “and keep my vows.”

“Death, there will be death, aye. Your lordship lost a son at the Red Wedding. I lost four upon the Blackwater. And why? Because the Lannisters stole the throne. Go to King’s Landing and look on Tommen with your own eyes, if you doubt me. A blind man could see it. What does Stannis offer you? Vengeance. Vengeance for my sons and yours, for your husbands and your fathers and your brothers. Vengeance for your murdered lord, your murdered king, your butchered princes. Vengeance!”