Erratic and capricious. Is pleased by most blue things. Likes to dream of tweed, and black cats, and coffee, and out-of-print novels. Badly whistles Belle & Sebastian songs when nervous. Inept conversationalist. Somewhat adept writer.
“You killed them. You and the ravens. Their faces were all torn, and their eyes were gone.” Coldhands did not deny it. “They were your brothers. I saw. The wolves had ripped their clothes up, but I could still tell. Their cloaks were black. Like your hands.” Coldhands said nothing. “Who are you? Why are your hands black?”
“He looked deep into the heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his tears burned his cheeks. Now you know, the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. Now you know why you must live. “Why?” Bran said, not understanding, falling, falling. Because Winter is coming.”