The Morning Had Dawned Clear And Cold,

Men Live Their Lives Trapped In An Eternal Present, Between The Mists Of Memory And The Sea Of Shadow That Is All We Know Of The Days To Come.

I Have An Instinctual Distrust Of Conventional Happy Endings.

Only The Soldier Pines And Sentinels Still Showed Green; The Broadleaf Trees Had Donned Mantles Of Russet And Gold, Or Else Uncloaked Themselves To Scratch Against The Sky With Branches Brown And Bare.

The Stone Is Strong. Bran Told Himself, The Roots Of The Trees Go Deep, And Under The Ground The Kings Of Winter Sit Their Thrones. So Long As Those Remained, Winterfell Remained. It Was Not Dead, Just Broken. Like Me, He Thought. I'm Not Dead Either.

The Women Are The Strong Ones, Truly.