[a crow lands in the window]
Old Nan: Don’t listen to it. Crows are all liars. I know a story about a crow.
Bran Stark: I hate your stories.
Old Nan: I know a story about a boy who hated stories. I could tell you about Ser Duncan The Tall, those were always your favorites.
Bran Stark: Those weren’t my favorites. My favorites were the scary ones.
Old Nan: Oh my sweet summer child, what do you know about fear? Fear is for the winter, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides for years and children are born and live and die, all in darkness. That is the time for fear, my little lord, when the white walkers move through the woods. Thousands of years ago there came a night that lasted a generation. Kings froze to death in their castles, same as the shepherds in their huts. And women smothered their babies rather than see them starve, and wept and felt the tears freeze on their cheeks. So is this the sort of story you like?
Old Nan: In that darkness, the white walkers came for the first time. They swept through cities and kingdoms, riding their dead horses, hunting with their packs of pale spiders big as hounds…