“Armour …’ mused Whirrun, licking a finger and scrubbing some speck of dirt from the pommel of his sword, ‘is part of a state of mind … in which you admit the possibility … of being hit.”

“Armour... is part of a state of mind... in which you admit the possibility... of being hit.”

“The ochre-yellow linoleum floor hasn't been scrubbed for some time; splotches of dirt bloom on it like grey pressed flowers.”

“I was momentarily stunned by his odd announcement and told him as much. "Let’s just talk about the fact that you composed a sonnet to my vagina, shall we? You are sending off some major stalker vibes, which is odd because you’re gay. You are gay, right?" He narrowed his eyes at me and waved his hand in the direction of his 'muse' as he stated, "I don't want any part of that thing. I just want to honor it for being the only known thing in existence to be touched by the dick of a god.”

“And how exactly did you come by that murderous little item? Ringil reached up and touched the pommel of the Ravensfriend, where it rose at his shoulder. 'It was forged for me at An-Monal by Grashgal the Wanderer.' Yes - actually I was talking to the sword.”

“Water was a state of mind. If you think it your friend when you swim in the river or wash away the dirt, why call it your enemy when it comes from the heavens? From the cup of the gods themselves.”