"Is there any creature on earth as unfortunate as an ugly woman?"
"How could they be? Men like that . . . too honest to live, too noble to shit."
"Clean hands, Sansa. Whatever you do, make certain your hands are clean."
והסיפור של mance rayder
זהירות - ספויילר!
“One day on a ranging we brought down a fine big elk. We were skinning it
when the smell of blood drew a shadowcat out of its lair. I drove it off, but not before it
shredded my cloak to ribbons. Do you see? Here, here, and here?” He chuckled. “It
shredded my arm and back as well, and I bled worse than the elk. My brothers feared I
might die before they got me back to Maester Mullin at the Shadow Tower, so they
carried me to a wildling village where we knew an old wisewoman did some healing.
She was dead, as it happened, but her daughter saw to me. Cleaned my wounds, sewed
me up, and fed me porridge and potions until I was strong enough to ride again. And
she sewed up the rents in my cloak as well, with some scarlet silk from Asshai that her
grandmother had pulled from the wreck of a cog washed up on the Frozen Shore. It
was the greatest treasure she had, and her gift to me.” He swept the cloak back over his
shoulders. “But at the Shadow Tower, I was given a new wool cloak from stores, black
and black, and trimmed with black, to go with my black breeches and black boots, my
black doublet and black mail. The new cloak had no frays nor rips nor tears . . . and
most of all, no red. The men of the Night’s Watch dressed in black, Ser Denys Mallister
reminded me sternly, as if I had forgotten. My old cloak was fit for burning now, he
said.
“I left the next morning . . . for a place where a kiss was not a crime, and a man could
wear any cloak he chose.”