Eddard Stark was filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. This was his place, here in the north. He looked at the stone figures all around, breathed deep in the chill silence of the crypt. He could feel the eyes of the dead. They were listening, he knew.
And winter was coming.
“Why can’t it be both?” Meera reached up to pinch his nose.
“Because they’re different,” he insisted. “Like night and day, or ice and fire.”
“If ice can burn,” said Jojen in his solemn voice, “then love and hate can mate.”
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“The gods be damned. It was a hollow victory they gave me. A crown … it was the girl I prayed them for. Your sister, safe … and mine again, as she was meant to be. I ask you, Ned, what good is it to wear a crown? The gods mock the prayers of kings and cowherds alike.”
-Robert