"He is going to die, Tyrion realized. He felt curiously calm, though pandemonium raged all about him. Joffrey was making a dry clacking noise, trying to speak. His eyes bulged white with terror, and he lifted a hand… reaching for his uncle, or pointing… Is he begging my forgiveness, or does he think I can save him?"
I wouldn’t mind living like this, a small little place that over looks the city. I could play records, drink tea, paint on Sundays, read books sprawled out on the ground and romance men way out of my league. That’d be nice.