“I’m pretty blown away by Benedict Cumberbatch. I just love his absolute commitment to his characters. He’s so ballsy. He’s so unafraid to really go there — to commit physically, to commit emotionally, to commit verbally, like he’s just very clear and very specific about his characters, and really unabashed in embodying them.” — Tatiana Maslany. (x)
"At the edge of the wolfswood, Bran turned in his basket for one last glimpse of the castle that had been his life. Wisps of smoke still rose into the grey sky, but no more than might have risen from Winterfell’s chimneys on a cold autumn afternoon. Soot stains marked some of the arrow loops, and here and there a crack or a missing merlon could be seen in the curtain wall, but it seemed little enough from this distance. Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I’m not dead either.”
Des jours et des semaines, des mois peut-être plus
Autant que je m’en souvienne, je crois que tu ne m’aimais plus
(*rough translation: You coming back, I’m not waiting for it anymore/You coming back, I’ve waited (for it) for so long/Days and weeks, months maybe more/As far as I remember, I think you didn’t love me anymore)
…setting aside the fact that this is a nonsense question, I suppose it’s because I’m never really going to stop being fourteen, and desperately needing the reassurance that no, it’s okay—there is a space for you in the story too.