The Bastard of Nightsong had commanded the rearguard that allowed Stannis to reach the safety of Salladhor Saan’s galleys, but he worshiped the Warrior with a faith as fierce as he was. King’s men, not queen’s men.

favorite minor asoiaf characters: rolland storm (1/?)

Friendly reminder that Samwell Tarly’s father resented and disowned him because he thought his son was weak and not worthy to be his heir. Sam would go on to become a steward of the Night’s Watch, join the Ranging Beyond the Wall, survive the Battle of the Fist of the First Men, and be the first black brother in eight thousand years to kill an Other/White Walker.

A daughter… he deserves that. A daughter who could sing to him and grace his hall and bear him grandsons. He deserves a son too, a strong and gallant son to bring honor to his name… I am the only child the gods let him keep. The freakish one, not fit to be a son or daughter.
—  Brienne of Tarth, A Feast for Crows
Connington glanced into the pit. ‘The bear was less hairy than that freak, I’ll–“
Jaime’s golden hand cracked him across the mouth so hard the other knight went stumbling down the steps. His lantern fell and smashed, and the oil spread out, burning.
'You were speaking of a highborn lady, ser. Call her by her name. Call her Brienne.”
—  A Feast for Crows page 583

Jaime. The name was a knife, twisting in her belly.
      “Lady Catelyn, I … you do not understand, Jaime … he saved me from being raped when the Bloody Mummers took us, and later he came back for me, he leapt into the bear pit empty-handed … I swear to you, he is not the man he was.” - Brienne, A Feast for Crows

In the mêlée at Bitterbridge she had sought out her suitors and battered them one by one, Farrow and Ambrose and Bushy, Mark Mullendore and Raymond Nayland and Will the Stork. She had ridden over Harry Sawyer and broken Robin Potter’s helm, giving him a nasty scar. And when the last of them had fallen, the Mother had delivered Connington to her. This time Ser Ronnet held a sword and not a rose. Every blow she dealt him was sweeter than a kiss. Loras Tyrel had been the last to face her wroth that day. He’d never courted her, had hardly looked at her at all, but he bore three golden roses on his shield that day, and Brienne hated roses. The sight of them had given her a furious strength.
—  Brienne of Tarth, Feast for Crows