Might have punctured a lung, if he had a lung. Most trees don't, as a rule. - George R. R. Martin

Bran tore his eyes away from the monster. That was when he noticed the bundle in Robb’s arms. He gave a cry of delight and moved closer. The pup was a tiny ball of grey-black fur, its eyes still closed. It nuzzled blindly against Robb’s chest as he cradled it, searching for milk among his leathers, making a sad little whimpery sound. Bran reached out hesitantly. “Go on,” Robb told him. “You can touch him.” Bran

The day before last, Jon had made the mistake of wishing he had hot water for a bath.
“Cold is better,” she had said at once, “if you’ve got someone to warm you up after. The river’s only part ice yet, go on.”
Jon laughed. “You’d freeze me to death.”
“Are all crows afraid of gooseprickles? A little ice won’t kill you. I’ll jump in with you to t’prove it so.”
“And ride the rest of the day with wet clothes frozen to our skins?” he objected.
“Jon Snow, you know nothing. You don’t go in with clothes.”
“I don’t go in at all,” he said firmly, just before he heard Tormund Thunderfist bellowing for him (he hadn’t, but nevermind).

Most deserve to be forgotten. The heroes will always be remembered. The best.” “The best and the worst.” So one of us is like to live in song. “And a few who were a bit of both. Like him.” He tapped the page he had been reading. “Who?” Ser Loras craned his head around to see. “Ten black pellets on a scarlet field. I do not know those arms.” “They belonged to Criston Cole, who served the first Viserys and the second Aegon.” Jaime closed the White Book. “They called him Kingmaker.