I wasn’t strong enough.
My reaction to all ASOIAF/GOT jokes…
“How do you distinguish one High Septon from another?”
“Is that why I always lose the pissing contests?” Asha laughed.
She [Cersei] stared at him, incredulous. “What did you say?”
“I’m the king. I get to say who has their tongues torn out, not you. I won’t let you hurt Margaery. I won’t. I forbid it.”
Jeyne Westerling had been Robb Stark’s queen, the girl who cost him everything. With a wolf in her belly, she could have proved more dangerous than the Blackfish. She did not look dangerous. Jeyne was a willowy girl, no more than fifteen or sixteen, more awkward than graceful. She had narrow hips, breasts the size of apples, a mop of chestnut curls, and the soft brown eyes of a doe.
“Nuestros dioses nos dieron piernas con las que correr, narices con las que oler, manos con las que tocar y acariciar… ¿Qué dios loco y cruel le daría ojos a un hombre y luego le diría que los tuviera siempre cerrados, que no contemplara nunca toda la belleza que hay en el mundo?”