Disease could wipe out an army quicker than any battle.
Never speak of defeat before battle.
No singer would ever make a song about that battle. No maester would ever write down an account for one of the Reader's beloved books. No banners flew$$$ no warhorns moaned$$$ no great lord called his men about him to hear his final ringing words. They fought in the predawn gloom$$$ shadow against shadow$$$ stumbling over roots and rocks$$$ with mud and rotting leaves beneath their feet.
A bloody sword is a beautiful thing.
A man should smell of sweat$$$ not flowers.
What man wants does not matter.
It is hard to look a hero when mounted on a pig.
Not that I'm complaining. It was better than my old dream$$$ where Harma Dogshead was feeding me to her pigs.""Harma's dead." Jon said."But not the pigs. They look at me the way Slayer used to look at ham. Not to say that the wildlings mean us harm. Aye$$$ we hacked their gods apart and made them burn the pieces$$$ but we gave them onion soup. What's a god compared to a nice bowl of onion soup? I could do with mine myself.
What sort of gods make rats and plagues and dwarfs?
My lord father used to say a man should never draw his sword unless he means to use it.