Fantooome - Fantôme

Lukas31

Winter is almost upon us, boy. And winter is death. I would sooner my men die fighting for the Ned’s little girl than alone and hungry in the snow, weeping tears that freeze upon their cheeks. No one sings songs of men who die like that. As for me, I am old. This will be my last winter. Let me bathe in Bolton blood before I die. I want to feel it spatter across my face when my axe bites deep into a Bolton skull. I want to lick it off my lips and die with the taste of it on my tongue.

A Dance With Dragons (via wordsoficeandfire)

Georgino ammazzatutti.

Brotp: Arya’s [almost] pack.

His breathing was very shallow now, his voice a whisper. “Tell my son. Jorah. Tell him, take the black. My wish. Dying wish.” “Wish?” The raven cocked its head, beady black eyes shining.” Corn? the bird asked. “No corn,” said Mormont feebly. “Tell Jorah. Forgive him. My son. Please. Go.”

Jeor Mormont , The Old Bear ; A Storm of Swords

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