The more stubborn the isolation, the more vivid these unlooked-for fragments, the more oppressive their weight. So that it seems the place I flee to is not so much a city on the other side of the world as further into my own interior.
When he was done, more than three-quarters of his page still remained to be filled between the gold lion on the crimson shield on top and the blank white shield at the bottom. Ser Gerold Hightower had begun his history, and Ser Barristan Selmy had continued it, but the rest Jaime Lannister would need to write for himself. He could write whatever he chose, henceforth. Jaimie page 1010
Jaimie writes the rest of his story on his page in the white book and ponders his duty and honor as a knight of the King's Guard.
The principle of this picture was sound. Unfortunately, I don't think I executed it successfully. Perhaps it would have worked out if I had zoomed out a little bit more, showing the weight of the room. But then it would have been too similar to the previous scene in this room.
It also would have helped if I'd looked at a picture of a book stand before I drew this.
With your eyes, I will see the deepest, most dazzling place within a white cabbage, the precious young petals concealed at its heart. With your eyes, I will see the chill of the half-moon risen in the day. At some point those eyes will see a glacier. They will look up at that enormous mass of ice and see something sacred, unsullied by life. They will see inside the silence of the white birch forest. Inside the stillness of the window where the winter sun seeps in. Inside those shining grains of dust, swaying along the shafts of light that slant onto the ceiling. Within that white, all of those white things, I will breathe in the final breath you released.
“There are certain memories that remain inviolate to the ravages of time. And to those of suffering. It is not true that everything is colored by time and suffering. It is not true that they bring everything to ruin.”
There is none of us whom life regards with any partiality. Sleet falls as she walks these streets, holding this knowledge inside her. Sleet that leaves cheeks and eyebrows heavy with moisture. Everything passes. She bears this remembrance—the knowledge that everything she has clung to will fall away from her and vanish—through the streets where the sleet is falling, that is neither rain nor snow, neither ice nor water, that dampens her eyebrows and streams from her forehead whether she stands still or hurries on, closes her eyes or opens them.