“Not that I'm complaining. It was better than my old dream, where Harma Dogshead was feeding me to her pigs.""Harma's dead." Jon said."But not the pigs. They look at me the way Slayer used to look at ham. Not to say that the wildlings mean us harm. Aye, we hacked their gods apart and made them burn the pieces, but we gave them onion soup. What's a god compared to a nice bowl of onion soup? I could do with mine myself.”

“All you Westerosi make a shame of loving. There is no shame in loving. If your septons say there is, your seven gods must be demons. In the isles we know better. Our gods gave us legs to run with, noses to smell with, hands to touch and feel. What mad cruel god would give a man eyes and tell him he must forever keep them shut, and never look at all the beauty in the world? Only a monster god, a demon of the darkness.”

“A grey man,” she said. “Neither white nor black, but partaking of both. Is that what you are, Ser Davos?”“What if I am? It seems to me that most men are grey.”“If half of an onion is black with rot, it is a rotten onion. A man is good, or he is evil.”

“You make us look bad', complained Toad.'You looked bad before I ever met you', Jon told him.”

“When they finally broke apart, Ygritte was flushed. "You're mine," she whispered. "Mine, as I'm yours. And if we die, we die. All men must die, Jon Snow. But first we'll live.”

“The gods made our bodies as well as our souls, is it not so? They give us voices, so we might worship them with song. They give us hands, so we might build them temples. And they give us desire, so we might mate and worship them in that way.”

“Now I understand why King Stannis let the wildlings through the Wall. He means for us to eat them.”