She has an idea, a god’s idea, full of vengeance and wrath.
A wise king knows what he knows and what he doesn’t.
last time I saw him, he was on the courtyard of Winterfell…
We paid a hundred million dollars more than anyone else on the condition that the money be used to relocate any family who lost anything within 50 miles of that pipeline. Job, home, land, livestock. Anything. What happened over there sickens me. I lose sleep over it every night. And as soon as I am out of this nightmare, I am going to shut down the entire project— the pipeline, the oil fields, all of it. So I’ve had just about enough of you two wondering whether I’m guilty of these murders or not. Is that a good enough trial run for you?
She had no time for sleep, with the weight of the world upon her shoulders. And she feared to dream. Sleep is a little death, dreams the whisperings of the Other, who would drag us all into his eternal night. She would sooner sit bathed in the ruddy glow of her red lord’s blessed flames, her cheeks flushed by the wash of heat as if by a lover’s kisses. Some nights she drowsed, but never for more than an hour. One day, Melisandre prayed, she would not sleep at all. One day she would be free of dreams. Melony, she thought. Lot Seven.
Before them a pale lord in ebon finery sat dreaming in a tangled nest of roots, a woven weirwood throne that embraced his withered limbs as a mother does a child. His body was so skeletal and his clothes so rotted that at first Bran took him for another corpse, a dead man propped up so long that the roots had grown over him, under him, and through him. What skin the corpse lord showed was white, save for a bloody blotch that crept up his neck onto his cheek. His white hair was fine and thin as root hair and long enough to brush against the earthen floor. Roots coiled around his legs like wooden serpents. One burrowed through his breeches into the desiccated flesh of his thigh, to emerge again from his shoulder. A spray of dark red leaves sprouted from his skull, and grey mushrooms spotted his brow. A little skin remained, stretched across his face, tight and hard as white leather, but even that was fraying, and here and there the brown and yellow bone beneath was poking through.
She’s essentially a puppet of the regime.
And later I dreamed that maid again, slaying a savage giant in a castle built of snow.
judge a person by who they want on the iron throne