I Thought My Song Was Beginning That

When The End Comes, I Will Meet It Raging.

Drifting Snowflakes Brushed Her Face As Light As Lover’s Kisses, And Melted On Her Cheeks. At The Center Of The Garden, Beside The Statue Of The Weeping Woman That Lay Broken And Half-buried On The Ground, She Turned Her Face Up To The Sky And Closed Her Eyes. She Could Feel The Snow On Her Lashes, Taste It On Her Lips. It Was The Taste Of Winterfell. The Taste Of Innocence. The Taste Of Dreams.

It Was That White Cloak That Soiled Me, Not The Other Way Around.

His Snores Sounded Like Ducks Mating.

Jon Lied ... Loudly, As If That Could Make It True.