מה אתם חושבים על המונולוג הזה? (לא אומר מאיפה)

Ive fought in three campaigns, he began. In seven pitched battles. In countless raids and skirmishes and desperate defences, and bloody actions of every kind. Ive fought in the driving snow, the blasting wind, the middle of the night. Ive been fighting all my life, one enemy or another, one friend or another. Ive known little else. Ive seen men killed for a word, for a look, for nothing at all. A woman tried to stab me once for killing her husband, and I threw her down a well. And thats far from the worst of it. Life used to be cheap as dirt to me. Cheaper.

Ive fought ten single combats and I won them all, but I fought on the wrong side and for all the wrong reasons. Ive been ruthless, and brutal, and a coward. Ive stabbed men in the back, burned them, drowned them, crushed them with rocks, killed them asleep, unarmed, or running away. Ive run away myself more than once. Ive pissed myself with fear. Ive begged for my life. Ive been wounded, often, and badly, and screamed and cried like a baby whose mother took her tit away. Ive no doubt the world would be a better place if Id been killed years ago, but I havent been, and I dont know why.

He looked down at his hands, pink and clean on the stone. There are few men with more blood on their hands than me. None, that I know of. The Bloody-Nine they call me, my enemies, and theres a lot of em. Always more enemies, and fewer friends. Blood gets you nothing but more blood. It follows me now, always, like my shadow, and like my shadow I can never be free of it. I should never be free of it. Ive earned it. Ive deserved it. Ive sought it out. Such is my punishment