academy award winner cillian murphy

— She looked at the sword with wonder in her eyes. For a moment she was afraid to touch it, afraid that if she reached for it it would be snatched away again, but then her father said, "Go on, it's yours," and she took it in her hand. "I can keep it?" she said. "For true?" — "I never learned the lance, but I could beat you with a sword," said Arya.

— Lyanna might have carried a sword, if my lord father had allowed it.

"None offered a name, but he marked their faces well so he could revenge himself upon them later. They shoved him down every time he tried to rise, and kicked him when he curled up on the ground. But then they heard a roar. 'That's my father's man you're kicking,' howled the she-wolf." 

"Mycah," the boy muttered. He recognized the prince and averted his eyes. "M'lord.""He's the butcher's boy," Sansa said."He's my friend," Arya said sharply. "You leave him alone."

You have a wildness in you, child. ‘The wolf blood,’ my father used to call it.

Her father sighed. “Ah, Arya. You have a wildness in you, child. ’The wolf blood,’ my father used to call it. Lyanna had a touch of it, and my brother Brandon more than a touch. It brought them both to an early grave.” Arya heard sadness in his voice; he did not often speak of his father, or of the brother and sister who had died before she was born. “Lyanna might have carried a sword, if my lord father had allowed it. You remind me of her sometimes. You even look like her.”

“Lyanna was beautiful,” Arya said, startled. Everybody said so. It was not a thing that was ever said of Arya.

“She was,” Eddard Stark agreed, “beautiful, and willful, and dead before her time.”

—   “Lyanna might have carried a sword, if my lord father had allowed it. You remind me of her sometimes. You even look like her.”

“Lyanna was beautiful,” Arya said, startled. Everybody said so. It was not a thing that was ever said of Arya.

—  The northern girl had a wild beauty, as he recalled

—  Best you have a new face as well. A pretty one this time, I think. As pretty as your own. Who are you, child?“

—  Or would you sooner be a courtesan, and have songs sung of your beauty?

—  "I’m sorry I tore the acorn dress too. It was pretty.”

“Yes, child. And so are you. Be brave.”

It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse. Well, that and manage a household. Sansa had never had much of a head for figures. If she did marry Prince Joff, Arya hoped for his sake that he had a good steward.

— A Game of Thrones, Arya I

She had been riding as long as she could remember, ponies when she was little and later horses.

— A Storm of Swords, Arya I

“Mycah and I are going to ride upstream and look for rubies at the ford.”

“I hate riding,” Sansa said fervently. “All it does is get you soiled and dusty and sore.” // “Why would you want to ride a smelly old horse and get all sore and sweaty when you could recline on feather pillows and eat cakes with the queen?”

— A Game of Thrones, Sansa I

He loved to ride. His little sister took after him in that. A pair of centaurs, those two. 

— A Dance with Dragons, The Turncloak

Not even Lord Rickard’s daughter could outrace him, and that one was half a horse herself.

— A Dance with Dragons, Reek III

“You ride like a northman, milady,” Harwin said when he’d drawn them to a halt. “Your aunt was the same. Lady Lyanna.”

— A Storm of Swords, Arya III

He knew nothing of his mother; Eddard Stark would not talk of her. Yet he dreamed of her at times, so often that he could almost see her face. In his dreams, she was beautiful, and highborn, and her eyes were kind.

Jon swelled with pride. “Robb is a stronger lance than I am, but I’m the better sword, and Hullen says I sit a horse as well as anyone in the castle.”

Not even Lord Rickard’s daughter could outrace him, and that one was half a horse herself.

“Lady Stark is not my mother,” Jon reminded him sharply.

• Day 19: Mother

Not my mother, Jon thought stubbornly. He knew nothing of his mother; Eddard Stark would not talk of her. Yet he dreamed of her at times, so often that he could almost see her face. In his dreams, she was beautiful, and highborn, and her eyes were kind.

Brandon was fostered at Barrowton with old Lord Dustin, the father of the one I’d later wed, but he spent most of his time riding the Rills. He loved to ride. His little sister took after him in that. A pair of centaurs, those two.

“You ride like a northman, milady,“ Harwin said when he’d drawn them to a halt. "Your aunt was the same. Lady Lyanna.”

Horses… the boy was mad for horses, Lady Dustin will tell you. Not even Lord Rickard’s daughter could outrace him, and that one was half a horse herself.

Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister’s eyes. Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black. After that he remembered nothing. They had found him still holding her body, silent with grief. The little crannogman, Howland Reed, had taken her hand from his. Ned could recall none of it.

𝒜 𝒮𝒪𝒩𝒢 𝒪𝐹 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐿𝒜𝒟𝐼𝐸𝒮

They shoved him down every time he tried to rise, and kicked him when he curled up on the ground. But then they heard a roar. ‘That’s my father’s man you’re kicking,’ howled the she-wolf. The she-wolf laid into the squires with a tourney sword, scattering them all. The crannogman was bruised and bloodied, so she took him back to her lair to clean his cuts and bind them up with linen.

“Arry, come on! Lommy’s gone, leave her if she won’t come!” Stubbornly, Arya dragged all the harder, pulling the crying girl along.

***

“I will not turn away from them,” she said stubbornly. “A queen must know the sufferings of her people.” “Khaleesi, no.” The bell in his braid rang softly as he dismounted. “You must not get any closer. Do not let them touch you! Do not!” Dany walked right past him. There was an old man on the ground a few feet away, moaning and staring up at the grey belly of the clouds. She knelt beside him, wrinkling her nose at the smell, and pushed back his dirty grey hair to feel his brow. “His flesh is on fire. I need water to bathe him. Seawater will serve. Marselen, will you fetch some for me? I need oil as well, for the pyre. Who will help me burn the dead?”

Whoever he was, the old gods gave strength to his arm. The porcupine knight fell first, then the pitchfork knight, and lastly the knight of the two towers. None were well loved, so the common folk cheered lustily for the Knight of the Laughing Tree, as the new champion soon was called. When his fallen foes sought to ransom horse and armor, the Knight of the Laughing Tree spoke in a booming voice through his helm, saying, ‘Teach your squires honor, that shall be ransom enough.’ Once the defeated knights chastised their squires sharply, their horses and armor were returned. And so the little crannogman’s prayer was answered … by the green men, or the old gods, or the children of the forest, who can say?“