George Martin

Nuncle, how can you even think of not attending? This will be history, alive...”

“I prefer my history dead. Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.”

“Do you want to die old and craven in your bed?”

“How else? Though not till I’m done reading.”

“When you cross to Saltpans, no doubt Ser Quincy will ask you for forgiveness. I am glad that you are here to give it. I could not.”

Ser Mandon’s sword slashed down, parting hand from wrist.

Ser Boros did not look pleased at the prospect of leaving the safety of the castle.

“His Grace is but a boy.

“Renly offered me a peach.

Next?”

“A lordling down from the Trident, says your father’s men burned his keep, raped his wife, and killed all his peasants.”

“I believe they call that war.”

Last night a baker was roasted in his own oven. The mob claimed he charged too much for bread.”

“Did he?”

“He’s not apt to deny it.”

Cersei fixed him with those clear green eyes of hers, beautiful even in their contempt.

If ever truly a man had armored himself in gold, it was Petyr Baelish, not Jaime Lannister.