Jaime looked back at Robb with rage blazing through him and said, low and utterly flat, “The next time I see you, Stark, I’ll kill you.” “The next time I see you, Ser Jaime,” Robb said, “if you ask nicely, I’ll do it again.”

Jaime didn’t like the Starks at all. He didn’t like their earnestness and honesty and prudishness, he didn’t like their cold heavy-walled castle, he didn’t like their frozen block of a realm, and he especially didn’t like Robb Stark, who had saved his son’s life and been kind to him and got him to sleep, and what business of his was it to have done any of those things?

There were a lot of wedding gifts, oddly enough, although they weren't all meant in exactly the same spirit.

The deep satisfaction of having made the right choice; of having found a clear-flowing wellspring of true honor to protect.

“When the Night’s King rides,” the giant said, each word slow as cold honey pouring, “the King in the North must answer. The King in the North…whose name is Stark.”

“The girl asks for more deaths than she is owed. The Many-Faced God may grant it. But for this, there will be a price. And a man cannot say what the price will be. A girl must pay. A man must pay. A girl’s brother must pay, if he agrees.”

“Yes, Lord Stark has come to town to help his mother bring out his eldest sister,” Tyrion said, pouring Jaime a glass of wine. “I understand he also plans to take his seat in the House of the Law. His uncle Edmure has been gathering time for him to give his maiden speech.” “Yes, yes,” Jaime said irritably. “That’s not what matters and you know it. Well?” Tyrion sighed. “He's nineteen, well-favored, and as far as I know, neither demented nor stupid. And not a hint of a betrothal. Sorry.”

There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival. —Thornton Wilder

It had never occurred to Jaime once, in the three solid months he’d spent in the pen, that Robb Stark could make his imprisonment worse by giving him a bath, a warm bed, and some decent food to eat.