"When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When my womb quickens again, and I bear a living child. Then you will return, my sun and stars, and not before."
"Dany stroked the girl’s hair. “Say the word, my sweet, and I will send you from this awful place. I will find a ship somehow and send you home. To Naath.” “I would sooner stay with you. On Naath I’d be afraid. What if the slavers came again? I feel safe when I’m with you.” Safe. The word made Dany’s eyes fill up with tears. “I want to keep you safe.” Missandei was only a child. With her, she felt as if she could be a child too. “No one ever kept me safe when I was little. Well, Ser Willem did, but then he died, and Viserys…I want to protect you but…it is so hard. To be strong. I don’t always know what I should do. I must know, though. I am all they have. I am the queen…the… he …” “…mother,” whispered Missandei. “Mother to dragons.” Dany shivered. “No. Mother to us all.” Missandei hugged her tighter. “Your Grace should sleep. Dawn will be here soon, and court.” "We’ll both sleep, and dream of sweeter days. Close your eyes.” When she did, Dany kissed her eyelids and made her giggle."
The woman in grey gave no answer. She studied the sword, the parchment, the bronze-and-iron crown. Finally she reached up under her jaw and grasped her neck, as if she meant to throttle herself. Instead she spoke … Her voice was halting, broken, tortured. The sound seemed to come from her throat, part croak, part wheeze, part death rattle. The language of the damned, thought Brienne. “I don’t understand. What did she say?”
"She asked the name of this blade of yours," said the young northman in the sheepskin jerkin.
"Oathkeeper," Brienne answered.
The woman in grey hissed through her fingers. Her eyes were two red pits burning in the shadows. She spoke again.
"No, she says. Call it Oathbreaker, she says. It was made for treachery and murder. She names it False Friend. Like you."
"To whom have I been false?"
"To her," the northman said. "Can it be that my lady has forgotten that you once swore her your service?"
There was only one woman that the Maid of Tarth had ever sworn to serve. “That cannot be,” she said. “She’s dead.”
"Death and guest right," muttered Long Jeyne Heddle. "They don’t mean so much as they used to, neither one."
"He was all I had once, before Myrcella was born. I passed hours just looking at him. His wisps of hair. His little hands and feet. Such a jolly little fellow. He was happy whenever he was with me. For a long, long time. No one can take that away from me, not even Joffrey. What it felt like to have someone. Someone of your own.”