Remember Old Nan's Stories, Bran. Remember The

In Order To Get Inside Their Skin, I Have To Identify With Them. That Includes Even The Ones Who Are Complete Bastards, Nasty, Twisted, Deeply Flawed Human Beings With Serious Psychological Problems. Even Them. When I Get Inside Their Skin And Look Out Through Their Eyes, I Have To Feel A Certain - If Not Sympathy, Certainly Empathy For Them. I Have To Try To Perceive The World As They Do, And That Creates A Certain Amount Of Affection.

Men Will Always Underestimate You, He Said, And Their Pride Will Make Them Want To Vanquish You Quickly, Lest It Be Said That A Woman Tried Them Sorely. Let Them Spend Their Strength In Furious Attacks, Whilst You Conserve Your Own. Wait And Watch, Girl, Wait And Watch.

When You Smell Our Candles Burning, What Does It Make You Think Of, My Child?" Winterfell, She Might Have Said. I Smell Snow And Smoke And Pine Needles. I Smell The Stables. I Smell Hodor Laughing, And Jon And Robb Battling In The Yard, And Sansa Singing About Some Stupid Lady Fair. I Smell The Crypts Where The Stone Kings Sit. I Smell Hot Bread Baking. I Smell The Godswood. I Smell My Wolf. I Smell Her Fur, Almost As If She Were Still Beside Me. "i Don't Smell Anything," She Said.

You Know Nothing, Jon Snow

Fantasy Is Silver And Scarlet, Indigo And Azure, Obsidian Veined With Gold And Lapis Lazuli. Reality Is Plywood And Plastic, Done Up In Mud Brown And Olive Drab. Fantasy Tastes Of Habaneros And Honey, Cinnamon And Cloves, Rare Red Meat And Wines As Sweet As Summer. Reality Is Beans And Tofu, And Ashes At The End.