“You love someone, you open yourself up to suffering, that’s the sad truth. Maybe they’ll break your heart, maybe you’ll break their heart and never be able to look at yourself in the same way. Those are the sad risks. That’s the burden. Like wings, they have weight; we feel that weight on our backs, but they are a burden that lifts us. Burdens which allow us to fly.”
Atop the wings was a folded piece of paper, addressed to the New York Institute. After splashing water on her face, Maryse had taken the letter and read it. It was short - one sentence - and was signed with a name in a handwriting oddly familiar to her, for in it there was an echo of Valentine’s cursive, the flourishes of his letters, the strong, steady hand. But it was not Valentine’s name. It was his son’s. Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern. She held it out to Brother Zachariah. He took it from her fingers and opened it, reading, as she had, the single word of Ancient Greek scrawled in elaborate script across the top of the page. Erchomai, it said. I am coming.
“Not to sound too much like an obnoxious actor, but the character never really leaves me. I’ve read all the “Game of Thrones” books many times over, so I sometimes find it easier being on set, because it can be hard to get out of character.”- Emilia Clarke