“I don’t care for that honorifics crap. Well, I guess Ygritte hasn’t told you, did she?” “Told me what?” “What I thought. Just call me Robb. I don’t get off on people calling me titles.” “And what do you get off to then? If I may ask.” “Sure you can. I get off on people trusting me to do right by them. Which means that unless everyone is happy, it doesn’t work for me.” Or: where Theon Greyjoy and Robb Stark walk into Ygritte's BDSM club one evening. Calling it good karma is probably an understatement.

Theon loses a bet that means, for the first time, Jon gets to fuck him, rather than the other way around. He assumes Jon will treat him as roughly as he's always treated Jon. This proves incorrect.

She has only caught fleeting glances of Margaery today, their future queen being too busy with official matters, but every tiny glimpse of her sweet half-smile or the sunlight glinting on her pale shoulders has only pushed Sansa closer to the brink of madness. She does not know what is wrong with her: she knows she has no good reason to be craving Margaery's attentions so much today of all days, but then again, she has grown to crave it more days than not now.

“You let me go, I will find a ship and sail away,” Aegon pleaded. “Never to be found.”