Quotes About Violence

Hard words are for fools and cowards. Calder might have been both, but Logen was neither. If you mean to kill, you're better getting right to it than talking about it. Talk only makes the other man ready, and that's the last thing you want.

Ain't they people too, though?" muttered Beck, thinking of the face of that Union man lying dead in the shack yesterday. "Just like us?" Whirrun squinted across at him. "More than likely they are. But if you start thinking like that, well… you'll get no one killed at all.

Fencing is one thing,' he said. 'Actual violence quite another. Few of us are made for it. It is healthy to be disabused of our self-deceptions every now and then, even if it hurts.

The man screamed and screamed behind his mask, and the Bloody-Nine laughed and twisted the blade. Logen might have pitied him, but Logen was far away and the Bloody-Nine had no more pity in him than the winter. Less, even.

The blade itself incites to deeds of violence." —Homer

What's his story?' asked Yarvi. 'I don't know his name. Nothing, we all call him. When I was first brought to the South Wind he pulled an oar. One night, off the coast of Gettland, he tried to escape. Somehow he got free of his chain and stole a knife. He killed three guards and cut another's knee so he never walked again, and he gave our captain that scar before she and Trigg put a stop to him.' Yarvi blinked at the shambling scrubber. 'All that with a knife?' 'And not a large one.

Is this still battle? Is this still the glorious matching of man against man? Or is this just murder? He did not care. I cannot tell jokes, or make pretty conversation, but this I can do. This I am made for. Bremer dan Gorst, king of the world!

This is the North," muttered Clover. "Who hasn't killed a friend or two?

Hundreds of men, struggling and dying by the hellish glare of burning torches, of burning missiles, of burning houses. Friendly could hardly believe it was real. It all looked, false, fake, a model staged for a lurid painting. "The breach at Visserine." he whispered to himself, framing the scene with his hands and imagining it hanging on some rich man's wall.

There is a time for wondering what a man wants, and there is a time for splitting his head. This is that second time.

My curse on fucking causes! Nothing but big excuses. I never saw men act with such ignorance, violence and self-serving malice as when energised by a just cause.

His lips were split and bloody, his sides covered in darkening bruises, his head lolled sideways, face swollen almost past recognition. In short, he looks like a man ready to confess.

The more you kill, the more you get better at it. And the better you get at killing, the less use you are for anything else.

Van már terved? - Megöllek, és elbújok a holttestedben.

A shifting sea of jabbing weapons, squealing shields, shining metal, bone shattered, blood splattered, furious, terrified faces washing all round him, squirming and wriggling, and he hacked and chopped and split them like a mad butcher going at a carcass.

Something dug into the Bloody-Nine's back, but there was no pain. It was a sign. A message in a secret tongue, that only he could understand. It told him where the next dead man was standing. He reeled around and the sword followed him in a furious, beautiful, irresistible arc. It crunched into someone's guts, folded him in half, snatched him off his feet and flung him through the air. He

Body found floating by the docks," he breathed "bloated by seawater and horribly mutilated... far... far beyond recognition. Were the injuries inflicted before or after death?" he asked the ceiling breezily. "Was the mysterious deceased a man or a woman even?" he shrugged. "Who can say?

Should've stayed a carpenter," he whispered. But the sword had been the easier choice. To work wood you need all manner of tools–chisels and saws, axes great and small, nails and hammers, awls and planes. To be a killer you just need two. A blade and the will.

Probably been sure he'd got the right god, the right king, the right cause. Everyone finds a way to make their side the right one, after all. Now, as he stumbled back trying to hold his neck together, he found it's not the righteous win, but them who strike first and strike hardest.

He fell back, blood pouring from his split mouth. He was trying to say something but all he could say was blood and that was eloquence enough, in its way.

Once you set your mind on killing, it is hard to choose the number of the dead.

Within reach of his hand, the Bloody-Nine was master. The

Always more enemies, and fewer friends. Blood gets you nothing but more blood.

Once the killing starts, it rarely sticks to those who deserve it