When my husband brought that baby home from the war, I couldn't bear to look at him. Didn't want to see those brown stranger's eyes staring off at me. So I prayed to the Gods, Take him away. Make him die. He got the pox. And I knew I was the worst woman who ever lived. Murderer. I had condemned this poor, innocent child to a horrible death, all because I was jealous of his mother. A woman who he didn't even know. So I prayed to all seven Gods, let the boy live. Let him live and I'll love him. I'll be a mother to him. I'll beg my husband to give him a true name, to call him Stark and be done with it. To make him one of us. And he lived. And I couldn't keep my promise, and everything that's happened since then, all this horror that's come to my family, it's all because I couldn't love a motherless child.
"These are the kind of girls who hang dream catchers above their beds, who eat pomegranates and read old history books for fun. These are the kind of girls who take pictures of their hands with disposable cameras and wallpaper their bathrooms with pretty roses. These girls sketch eyes and mouths and little drawings all over things, they look you right in the eye and almost through you when you speak to them. These girls camp out in their backyards for fun, they light candles everywhere and if you visit them at home they usually have all sorts of animals. Their wardrobes are filled with silk robes and bows and hats, they drink tall glasses of milk and snack on chocolate while they watch the sun rise. These are the kind of girls who ride bikes through the city to the cinema that plays old movies in the middle of the day. They watch “Breakfast At Tiffanys” or “Rosemarys Baby”. These are the kind of girls who are quiet in public. They were the kind of girls who put too many marshmallows in their hot choclate, and when the snow came down, lit the fire, and pretended to be in the North Pole. They would water color things they couldn’t see, and eat French Toast for lunch. These girls were the kind of girls who always believe in unicorns, they believed in the power of love and dreams. They were the kind of girls who gazed out of windows at bigger worlds, and rain made them think of faeries and tree houses. In the summer they read Jane Austen and listened to Fleetwood Mac while sipping hot tea. They told ghost stories under huge floral sheets, candles glowing below their faces. The spooky endings made them scream and laugh. They huddled together so they wouldn’t get too scared. These are the girls that didn’t need boys in their lives to achieve happiness."